Another family milestone, a cooking day, and the heat goes on

 

The Tomball Alters: Lisa, standing behind her mom,
who is seated next to Morgan, then Colin, and high school junior Kegan.
A fine family.

Morgan Helene Alter of Tomball celebrated her eighteenth birthday by going off to college, which strikes me as particularly appropriate. Specifically, she and her parents drove to Lubbock where she will be a freshman at Texas Tech and where a special guy was waiting for her to join him. Morgan is the third and last of my granddaughters—the other two are Maddie, who has graduated and is working at a genius bar in Denver and Eden who begins her junior year at UCLA. I’m so proud of these girls, and so sure their boy cousins will catch up soon. To show how much things have changed since my day: Morgan’s parents, Colin and Lisa, drove her in Morgan’s car. They’ll fly back home tomorrow.

We had a visitor just now—a possum. All summer I’ve known there is a possum who likes our property. If a garbage bag gets left out overnight, it’s chewed and its contents scattered. Sophie has occasionally let loose with her “There’s a critter bark.” Tonight, she gave two little yelps, but then I saw Jordan bustling around on the deck. She sent me pictures of our guy, who looks cautious but not particularly scared. I am delighted to have him as a resident because he eats ticks and fleas and mosquitoes and other worrisome insects. I think he needs a name, and for no good reason Charlie comes to mind.

Charlie, the possum.

Today was again a cooking Saturday, but I may have bitten off more than I wanted to chew. I’d been prowling through old recipes—a file I’d stuck away in a cabinet in my closet when I downsized. This was a recipe for a chicken casserole with tomatillo sauce—and the sauce nearly did me in. Cooking two lbs. tomatillos in chicken broth was no problem, nor was chopping two cups green onions and two cups cilantro. Or even peeling ten garlic cloves. All tedious but easily done. But when it came to putting that whole mess in the processor, I stumbled.

By trial and error and mistake, I realized I couldn’t put ingredients in the processor bowl and then add the blade—it wouldn’t go down to be properly seated. Duh! Should have taken me half a minute to figure that out. I did realize that I would have to process the sauce in two batches, so I used a fork to pitch half the tortillas in. But then I had to add half the liquid and other ingredients, which meany standing up to dump them in and risking losing my balance because I need one hand to steady myself on something—or sitting and raising the bowl far over my head, which was a pain. I finally got it done, with only one major spill. I call that a triumph, but my arms are sore from stretching and lifting.

The casserole was delicious, and we have enough left for at least one more meal, which is a good thing because I warned the Burtons I would not be making it soon again. The good thing is there was a lot of tomatillo sauce left which is now hardening in my freezer, and we can use it on chicken breasts.

I have always been a believer in the extreme threat posed to our earth by climate change, and in this summer, which is unbearably hot even for Texas, I think the danger signs are clear. We must act yesterday—I applaud President Biden’s efforts in that direction and decry idiots like Senator Tommy Tubervlle who said he’s seen it hot on the football field and this is just summer. That’s what you get when you elected a  coach to the Senate. (Don’t get me started on Tuberville and his hold on military promotions—what a grandstanding idiot.)

Eastern Canada had huge fires earlier in the summer, and now British Columbia is fighting large wildfires. The world is still stunned by the destruction of Lahaina on Maui. Granted, the investigation of that fire is not complete and won’t be for a while, but it may well turn out that human error and mismanagement were part of the cause, if not for igniting it then for the inability to control it. That certainly has been the case with some destructive fires in California. I saw a meme today that said in effect while the earth burns, we may thank these people: and it listed, with pictures, millionaire CEOs of fossil fuel industries. Reading that, it struck me that the world really may disappear by fire. And so, tonight, I leave you with Robert Frost’s poem, “Fire and Ice.”

“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.”

 

Texas is on fire—and so am I!

 

Here's the illustration for the post that nobody seemed to read.
Hope the picture isn't a jinx. I will not post a picture of my dying garden.

The wonderful herb garden I was so excited about has dried to dust, the pentas are shrinking instead of growing and nary a bloom on them (last year they were so gorgeous!), and the grass is brown. I’m sure it does not come as news to many of you that Texas is burning up. We’ve had days over a hundred degrees for a least two weeks now, and the forecast is over a hundred through the end of the month--no rain. The first three days this coming week are to be between 108-110. It’s brutal. And it’s taking its toll not only on our yards and gardens but on our dispositions and sense of well-being. It’s like being haunted all the time by a nameless, shapeless, invisible enemy.

I run two of those ceiling air conditioners—one in the living area and one in the bedroom—twenty-four hours a day, although in the early morning and late evening I can open the patio door for fresh air and freedom for Sophie.

In weather like this, all you can do is stay inside. So that’s what I did this weekend. Jordan and Christian visited friends at a lake house not far from here, and Jacob had a buddy spend the weekend. So, I was on my own. Had a welcome visit Friday from Sue and Teddy who are headed tomorrow for an intriguing far north Scotland resort hotel—so far north that it’s on an inlet from the North Sea. You may wonder about a resort in such rugged country, but it’s a place for hiking and maybe fishing, enjoying wonderful food, and lots of peace and quiet. I admit to a bit of jealousy—if I could go, I’d let everyone else hike, and I’d stay in the studio with a desk and write. Pictures of the interior of the hotel are captivating—imagine Scandinavian modern in a nineteenth-century stone manse. I admit I’m more than a wee bit jealous.

Saturday, Jaimie and Greg Smith came for happy hour—they live at the other end of the block, but the heat is so bad they drove from their house to my cottage! We had a good visit, caught up on each other’s doings—they had just been on an Alaskan cruise, another thing to make me jealous except they ate no salmon. Who goes to Alaska and doesn’t eat salmon? We ended, as we often do, talking politics, and it was a lively discussion but got us nowhere because we all agree, loudly and fervently. They are good neighbors and I treasure their friendship.

But most of all this weekend I wrote and researched like a mad fool—got the material I have for next month’s newsletter edited and ready to go, just waiting for final submissions; wrote my monthly column for the online newsletter Lone Star Literary Life (check it out every Saturday if you haven’t already) and wrote the first draft to a foreword of a forthcoming cookbook. Imagine that! Me, asked to write a foreword to a cookbook. I’m beyond flattered. And then I did a lot of research on Helen Corbitt. The next chapter is beginning to take shape in my mind, but the draft is still woefully short. And today, I wrote a thousand words on the next Irene novel, just because I miss being with my friends from that novel. For now, the next installment is titled Irene Goes to Texas but that's blah, and I hope to come up with something better. I am, however, ignoring the suggestion of Irene Does Texas. Bad connotation.

You may have noticed I didn’t blog. That’s because I’m a bit puzzled. Friday night I wrote what I hoped was an interesting post about the reprints of three of my historical novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. Twenty copies of each suddenly landed on my coffee table—and that’s where they still are tonight. I gave a synopsis of each book, hoping it would attract readers. Nada. Not a single like nor comment. Now I don’t mean to whine, but there are some who comment on almost every post, which makes me wonder if this one somehow didn’t make it. It shows up on my Facebook page, but maybe not yours. Here’s a link if you missed it: View from the Cottage: Where is my librarian? (judys-stew.blogspot.com)

Tonight, the Burtons are back home, and I fixed us a sheet-pan supper of King salmon, potatoes and onions. I slow cooked the salmon—twenty-two minutes at 285^o. Salmon was delicious; potatoes and onion not so much. Undercooked. Close to raw. And those sweet onions I ordered? They weren’t. A substitution. Still the salmon with Jordan’s great salad was enough to make us all satisfied. And there’s cold salmon for lunch tomorrow. Who cares about potato and onion?

Stay cool, my friends.

 

Extreme heat, trump worries, a minyan…and chocolate

I think I am in love. I discovered chocolate bark with blueberries and quinoa. I’m not a big quinoa fan but in this instance, it adds a nice crunch. Please keep me from eating the whole bag in one sitting. It was not cheap for one thing.

Oh, this heat wave. I haven’t felt stifled by the heat, but I live a pretty protected existence. Most days I’m in my cottage. If I go out, it’s in the evening, when the temperature has started down. This morning, Jordan and I went to the grocery, but we left at 9:30—still pleasant outside—and were home by a little after 10:30. Still I worry about those who are out in this extreme heat every day. Hope everyone is keeping hydrated and staying indoors as much as possible. I also worry about brown-outs—maybe I just worry as a natural habit.

Learned today that our extreme heat is caused by dust drifting over us from a storm in the Sahara Desert. Apparently, the dust just hovers, giving us skies that aren’t quite clear and beautiful sunsets but really hot days. And it’s not going anywhere—I can see that because when I look outside, not a leaf is stirring. No breeze. None. Supposed to move on in a week. Meantime Friday is going to be record-setting hot.

I am really scared for America. I’m scared that there are those who don’t see what’s happening, don’t see that trump’s actions are treasonous. Somewhere today Monte Negro, Estonia and other eastern European countries got into the mix. They are supposedly on Putin’s list as he goes about building a new Russian empire. Other rumors include Scandinavia and Finland. What would trump do if Russia invaded those countries?

Some former FBI agents claim trump shows all the characteristics of a managed spy, and I would desperately like to see that disproven. I have sworn not to discuss Republicans on the basis of appearance—no more talking about Trey Gowdy’s pointed head or McConnell’s resemblance to a turtle—but I think it’s fair to say that in pictures from the Helsinki summit, Putin looks smugly happy and composed; trump looked more rumpled than usual, his expression semi-confused, his eyes and hair wilder than usual. I reject the off-color hints of a sexual encounter (just plain bad taste, folks, about a really serious matter), but I think appearances support the idea of a puppet and his handler. Scary stuff, and I wait daily for an explosion that may not come. That may be the whole strategy—let the country build in tension until we self-destruct.

Strange and frustrating internet experience tonight. I cancelled my Wednesday Betty dinner to be at my computer at seven. A friend, a woman I’ve met only once but know better through a small and close-knit online writing group, has been diagnosed with a serious form of cancer and is hospitalized on total bedrest. Tonight, friends and colleagues were making a minyan for her in the hospital chapel, and we were all invited to attend via Facebook. I thought it was the only way I could show my support and planned my evening around it. But come seven o’clock, I couldn’t find it. About seven-thirty, as if by some strange fiber-optic magic, my screen popped up with a small window that said she was live now. So I was able to join in remotely—for a few minutes, and then it cut out again. It was a roomful of love, and I was glad to be able to add a comment that I was there in spirit.