Watching the world go by

 

Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures

My neighbors and I in Fort Worth’s Berkeley neighborhood were virtually housebound this weekend with a double whammy of events which closed our streets. Saturday was sunny and beautiful, with temperatures in the high seventies or low eighties. I think half the families in Tarrant County decided it was a great day to visit the world-class Fort Worth Zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. Traffic on my street, Park Place Avenue, was backed up for four blocks—we do have the world’s longest red light at the corner before the road descends to the zoo. And by afternoon, cars were parked for blocks along many of our streets. This routinely happens over Spring Break, especially at half-price day at the zoo, and the Fort Worth Police do a good job of planning their strategy and keeping traffic moving as best they can. But who expects zoo weather in late February? Another sign of climate change, and one we should all take seriously. The traffic is not just an annoyance for those of us in the neighborhood: it’s a real problem if emergency vehicles such as an ambulance or fire truck are needed. Christian wanted to go to the store and could go out by going the opposite direction from the zoo, but he was afraid he could never get back home.

I was proud of my neighbors though—several posted on the neighborhood Buzz how good it was to see happy families enjoying the zoo and the fine weather. Said one, “It’s a happy day in the neighborhood,” with a hat tip to Mr. Rogers. There have been suggestions about a parking garage, which I don't think would fit the neighborhood ambiance at all, and a few other remedies, but the general mood is that we're happy to have the zoo and have people enjoy it. The only thing niggling in my mind is the off chance of the need of an emergency vehicle.

Today one of Fort Worth’s major events hit our neighborhood: the Cowtown Marathon, which attracts almost thirty thousand runners for the marathon and associated races—half marathon, ultramarathon, 10K, children’s races. The regular marathon goes right through Berkeley and then down one of our main access roads. The halfway point for the full marathon is approximately in front of our house, so we get to watch the runners go by. When I was in the main house, I used to sit on the porch and, silently to myself, assess the style and form of each runner. Now, from the cottage, I can only see them at a distance, if I peer down the driveway and through the iron gate.

Back when the marathon began in 1978 my then-husband was one of the founders, and I was on the publicity committee. The group from what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine met in my living room for months, talking about health and fitness and planning the marathon. I laughed each Sunday, because after the meeting, another girl and I served them fantastically rich desserts—and that ate every bite. Come race day, I woke my four children, ranging from nine to three, at five in the morning, and we headed for the Stockyards District where the race then began and ended. And I abandoned the children so I could help with whatever needed to be done (I remember a TV station had a van on site, and I periodically updated them). I can’t believe now that I turned the children loose, but I did. They reported in when they were hungry, but otherwise they joined other “race orphans” and roamed the area. They uniformly recall it as one of the really fun times of their childhood. This went on for two or three years until my husband and I divorced. But like my children I have mostly fond memories of the marathon, so race day is always a bit nostalgic for me.

The night before that first race, we were sitting in our home office when we heard it—and my husband said, “Sleet! I didn’t want sleet!” Actually he didn’t say it that politely. Next morning the streets were ice-covered. Unfortunately I don’t remember the temperature, but today it is sunny and clear and 80 at one o’clock—far too hot for marathoners. By now, as I write, all but the stragglers have made it to the finish line. It’s five hours after the start. And the zoo traffic is less, but it will pick up again when the zoo closes.

The weekend events are but another reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley.

My thoughts on caviar--yes, caviar!

 

My caviar appetizer

For a long time now, I’ve been wanting to do appetizers with caviar—no, not just because it’s ritzy and sounds sophisticated. I genuinely like it. The New York Times occasionally has recipes for dishes with caviar, like a caviar and cream cheese sandwich. I don’t know—that might be a bit much. I think caviar does best as an accent on a dish. But it’s expensive, even the cheap stuff—and my palate doesn’t know any better. But tonight, we were celebrating Subie’s birthday, so I tried something I’ve been wanting to: potato chips with seasoned sour cream and a dab of caviar. I have to confess, that was my supper. I ate a lot more than anyone else, and my honest assessment is that the flavors go together to well. The salty caviar is balanced by the sour cream and the whole things tops a potato chip almost perfectly. Almost.

I laboriously sat in Jordan’s kitchen, spooning sour cream onto potato chips— “Only unbroken ones,” she cautioned me, so I told Christian he could eat all the broken ones. I used my marrow spoon for that—another sign of my supreme sophistication. I mean, really, how many people do you know who own a marrow spoon? For that matter, how many people do you know who will eat bone marrow? Back to the caviar: the wide end of the spoon worked well for the sour cream, and I switched to the tiny narrow end for the caviar. Now, I have never been known for steady hands, and age has brought a slight tremor. So, I used my “good” right hand—still, what I intended as a neat small dollop of caviar ended up as a spray on the chip. And some ended on the counter—Christian scooped it up with a sponge, which I considered a great waste. Someone with steadier hands could have made it look a lot prettier. And the recipe said for the holiday season to use red salmon roe. That’s about twice as expensive as the low-grade black—I got black. Sometime I’d like to taste really good caviar, just to see if I could tell the difference.

A marrow spoon

Subie and I loved the chips. I don’t think Phil voiced an opinion, and I know Christian, who can sometimes these days be adventurous, was not so tonight and didn’t taste them. To my surprise, Jordan must have tried one, because she voiced what I had found: when you put the sour cream on the chip twenty or thirty minutes before serving, the chip gets soggy, at least in the middle where the sour cream is. The ideal would be somehow to make it self-serve, with small pots of sour cream and caviar. I have some left over, and a friend who probably doesn’t mind leftovers is coming one night soon. I’ll experiment with technique. And I guess I’ll use the marrow spoon again.

Writing this has made me think of my caviar memories. I did not grow up eating it. I think my introduction came the night my parents took my new husband and me to the Kungsholm in Chicago, over fifty years ago now. The Kungsholm was one of my favorite restaurants—a true Swedish smorgasbord, generous with such wonders as caviar and smoked salmon and marinated herring and all those things I love. After dinner, guests were invited to a puppet theater where miniature operas were performed. The puppets were on automated tracks, and I’m not sure how they did the sound, but it was glorious. If you ask me how I know about Dr. Faustus, I’ll say the Kungsholm. Unfortunately, the restaurant closed years ago.

But I have to be honest here: my parents were not exactly thrilled about my marriage to a Jewish boy from the Bronx, one who had never been taught much about manners and society and all the things that made my dad’s professional world go around. In Joel’s defense, he made correcting that a big project and quickly learned from Dad everything from table manners to gardening. But that night at the Kungsholm, he was delighted to have caviar. He kept going back for more until my mother said quite aloud, “I’ve never seen anyone eat so much caviar.” Joel’s family were eastern European immigrants and poor, so I don’t know how much caviar he had as a child. But he had similar foods, such as the herring and a marinated eggplant salad, etc. Anyway, that night is one of my fonder memories of him.

For over forty years, I threw a huge Christmas party, inviting sometimes a hundred of my nearest and dearest. It started small in the sixties and kept growing, at first with Joel but after he left, I kept up the tradition, with new friends. And one of the dishes I aways served had a seasoned cream cheese base with caviar, chopped onion, and chopped egg spread over it. Gosh, how I loved that. Today I don’t know if I can even find the recipe—and I certainly have no occasion for a spread that big. But I’d love to make it again.

I often talk about this last stage of life (the Third Stage, if you will) being filled with treasured memories. Tonight reminds me that caviar is one of those memories. And I’m not going to give it up. There’s more potato chips, sour cream, and caviar in my future. Yours?

Marshall Field and Company

 

The iconic clock on the Marshall Field & Co. flagship store
Corner of State Street and Washington Street, Chicago

Sandwiches for supper turned into a trip down memory lane for me. It wasn’t just any sandwich—it was a classic Marshall Field Turkey Sandwich that actually resembles “classic” sandwiches served in many places. I remember having something similar at Colonial Country Club in Fort Worth. An open-faced sandwich with rye topped by turkey, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing and decorated with tomato, sliced egg, bacon and olive—shh! don’t tell Christian because I didn’t offer him an olive, which he loves.

Anyway, the sandwich started me thinking about my many ties and trips to the flagship Marshall Field store in downtown Chicago. Those excursions started when I was very young. My father, an osteopathic physician, had an office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex, and Mom would end shopping trips by taking me to the bargain basement where, hidden away in a corner, was a snack bar that far as I can remember only served hot dogs and frozen malts. I loved it. Then, nearby, was a secret door (I just thought it was a secret—it really wasn’t) that opened to a staircase. Go up one floor and through the door and, like magic, we were in the lobby of the annex without having to go out of the building and cross the downtown street. We’d take the elevator to the seventeenth floor. That was in the day when there was a white-gloved, uniformed operator in every elevator.

By the time I was old enough to be turned loose in the store, I knew every inch of every floor.  I could take you to household goods or teen clothes. I knew we came in by the glove counter, and on that pillared first floor were the hosiery and jewelry counters. On the sixth floor you could choose from several restaurants. The Walnut Room, a bit staid and dignified, was the main dining area, but Mom and I always liked The Verandah, decorated as though it were part of a southern mansion. In fact, I bet I had the classic sandwich there. And I know at least once, when Mom was nowhere around, my friend Eleanor Lee and I rode up the down escalator and down the up, to the consternation of store employees no doubt. Today I’m uncertain of my footing on escalators and avoid them when I can, so I look back on that adventure with awe.

Eventually I could go downtown by myself, riding the IC or Illinois Central commuter train. And mostly I went to Marshall Field’s though I did give a bit of business to rival Carson, Pirie & Scott just a block down State Street. I remember once paying twenty dollars for a blouse and thinking I was terribly extravagant. By then, Dad had closed his downtown office and was full time president of the Chicago College of Osteopathy and administrator of the adjacent hospital, so I had no downtown refuge.

The last time I was at Field’s was in the nineties, when I visited with a Texas friend who had grown up in a northwest Chicago suburb. We had lunch in the Walnut Room, and it was a bit shabby. We both felt the magic we remembered from our childhood was gone. But my connection to Field’s doesn’t end there.

I can’t remember which came first—the book I read or the one I wrote. The one I read was What the Lady Wants: A Novel of Marshall Field and the Gilded Age, by Renée Rosen, which perhaps inspired both the title and subject of my The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago. My novel focused on Bertha (Cissy) Palmer, wife of hotelier Potter Palmer who built the Palmer House. Marshall Field played a large part in that story, for he and Potter Palmer were prominent among Chicago’s Robber Barons, along with Gustavus Swift, Philip Armour, George Pullman and others. Cissy Palmer interested me because she was the first (or one of them) woman philanthropist and most probably the first marred to a Robber Baron. The fictionalized version of her life covers Chicago history from the 1840s through the 1893 Columbian Exposition, including the Great Fire, labor troubles, the Civil War, and the Haymarket Riot. You can read a bit more about Cissy and her world here: The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. (That’s called blatant self promoton or BSP.)

Last night, Christian liked the Marshall Field sandwich so much he voted to keep it on the rotation of dishes we frequently have. I agreed, because not only did I like it, it brought back happy memories. There has never been another store like Field’s—not even Neiman Marcus—and I miss it. At least you can still get their much-praised Frango Mints online.

 

Food, war, and chaos--finding comfort in bad times

 

 

You know it’s a slow week when the highlight of the day is going to the doctor’s office for blood work. The nice thing about that is that Jordan and I both had appointments. And the brdy part was that it got me out in the fresh air.

But that’s sort of how my week has been, so tonight this is a non-blog. I just don’t have much to say. My week has been consumed mostly by my dive into the food we ate in the 1950s. I can’t figure out if I’m working on a cookbook, a memoir, a narrative about culinary history or some weird combination of all those. I’m loving some of the facts that I turn up, along with the stories friends tell me. One friend remembers her grandmother making biscuits in an old enamel pan, adding a pinch of this and a glop of lard—no measuring. Still another remember the time the flour from the store had little black specks in it—not knowing any better, she dumped it into the barrel where her mom kept fresh flour. Of course, the whole thing had to be thrown out, and her mother was angry. She had lived through the Depression, as had my mother, and she was terrified of waste.

Two other things consume me, and my thoughts frequently go to the Middle East, grieving over the Israeli dead and those held hostage and equally over the Palestinian civilians caught between two warring armies—and two ideologies. But at the same time I am riveted to the chaos in our House of Representatives, or as Hakeen Jeffries calls it, “the Peope’s House.” I am relieved beyond measure that Gym Jordan’s hopes for the speakership seem doomed, but I am still a bit afraid to count on his defeat. To think of that man wielding political power, let alone being third in line for the presidency, is a horror beyond imagining. I should think that this clown show has the Republican party hemorrhaging votes, but I know that mine is a simplistic attitude. At this point, there’s no explaining die-hard Republicans.

I have also done some menu planning this week—I will be entertaining a small group next week one evening, some book ladies, and a longtime friend another. So I was thumbing through old recipe files, something I like to do. For the small group I will fix pigs in a blanket and onion soup biscuits—where you quarter refrigerator biscuits and roll the pieces in butter and onion soup. Remember how many things we fixed with that soup back in the day? Today most people still use the classic dip with sour cream—it’s so addictive. But I am trying to stick to finger food, so no dip. One friend is bringing deviled eggs—yum!—and another Parmesan crisps. The night my friend comes I’ll do a stuffed eggplant (it’s okay—she doesn’t read on Facebook) because I know she loves eggplant, and my family won’t eat it.

And then there are some eat-alone nights. I’m still in search of a can of corned beef hash so I can fix it like my mom did—refrigerated, then took both ends off the can and pushed the meat through in one big cylinder, which she sliced and fried. She got a good, crisp crust on it, something I have yet to duplicate, but I’ll keep trying. Speaking of such retro dishes, I did fix creamed chipped beef (commonly known as SOS or shit on a shingle) for someone last week, and we both raved about how good it was.

As I look back at the week, or half week, I realize that I find comfort in reading, writing, and talking about food. It draws my mind from the chaos of our world and somehow reassures me that the normal world is still there for many of us. That normal world is so fragile, and we are so fortunate, that it sometimes scares me a lot. But I am an optimist. I pray for peace abroad, and for tolerance here at home so that we may truly love our neighbor—and let our kids read whatever books they want.

I’ll quit and read a good mystery. Watch for Gourmet on a Hot Plate tomorrow—hint, the recipe of the week is something from the fifties (no surprise there), and it involves chicken and linguini.

‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

The urge to purge, disappointment, and surprise

 

Just because I really like this picture.
My gang and me in front of Tiffany elevator doors in Chicago's Palmer House.
That trip was seven years ago right about now.

This morning dawned dreary again, and I thought we were in for a day of rain. Wishful thinking. I knew the Burtons had plans most of the day—Jacob’s golf tournament, a football game tonight, etc., and I had no plans, so it promised to be a long day. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to work on. Drifting, you might call it.

I’m not sure what changed the mood of the day, but I found myself purging files. I have a rack of file folders on the credenza (a much fancier word for what it is) by my desk. It’s overcrowded and messy, and somehow, I found myself pulling folders, sorting old papers. I had a file labeled “Pending” where I stuck everything I didn’t know what to do with. As a result, there were receipts from 2019 and precious little that I needed to save today. Several files could go to the “inactive” file—a disorganized drawer in the bottom of a cabinet beyond the pretentious credenza. No, I did not alphabetize—I just stuck them in wherever they would fit. That’s one thing the kids will someday have to deal with—I can’t get down on the floor to be orderly about it.

And then there are recipes—four folders of them, though I sent one folder, labeled something like “Lean and Green” into the house for Jordan. And I sorted through the others, some with recipes I’ve kept since the seventies when the kids were little. It wasn’t the old recipes I purged—they are like treasures—but the countless new ones I print on impulse and then later realize I will never cook. I have now filled two wastebaskets, mostly with culled recipes.

While I sorted and discarded, I had the TV on, watching for a Paxton verdict. When it came, it was at first agonizingly slow—for each article of impeachment, a clerk read off the way each senator voted. Call me Pollyanna, because I honestly thought the vote might go against him. But as the words, “the Senate cleared him” came up more often, I lost heart. At first, I thought maybe the more serious charges would come later, but no. That bunch of cowards acquitted him on all counts, when it is clear to anyone who’s been following the proceedings that he is guilty as sin. One national news source called him “impressively corrupt.” Let me right now give a shout-out to my senator, Kelly Hancock of North Richland Hills, one of only two Republicans who consistently voted to find him guilty. I quickly wrote Hancock a note of appreciation.

There’s not much consolation to be had, and I won’t rehash Paxton’s corrupt career nor the proceedings, though I thought it impudent and imprudent of Dan Patrick, at the end of proceedings, to blame it all on the House who should have not impeached in the first place. Talk about impartiality.

I am angry. I am furious. I am dismayed that I live in a state where corruption and greed rule. I don’t intend to be silent, but I feel helpless, and I don’t like it.

My day was brightened, however, about two o’clock when the phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize so I didn’t answer. It quit ringing, but whoever it was called right back, and I saw that it was a call from Omaha. Normally the origin of the call doesn’t mean much, but I answered just in case. And it was one of the people in this world I most treasure: Martha Andersen, who I’ve known since the early Sixties.

We were in graduate school, working on master's degrees, at Kirksville State Teachers College (now Truman State University) in Missouri. Our fathers knew each other, which was our initial contact. Her fiancé and my soon-to-be husband hit it off, and the four of us spent a lot of time together, until they left as Dick’s work took him to Kansas and then Nebraska and we moved to Texas. But we kept up, and they visited. After my divorce, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Martha, and in later years the three of us went to Santa Fe and they made a couple of trips to Fort Worth. When they sublet a condo in Hawaii, Jordan and I flew out to spend days with them.

It was and always has been on of those friendships that just clicked. We can go weeks, months without talking and then pick up right where we left off. She is sometimes a beta reader for something I’ve written, and she’s good—I take her ideas and comments seriously. Today we talked about my kids and hers and where they are today. For most people, that’s idle conversation, but we really care. She talked about gratitude after all we’ve both been through—and I had to stop and think for a moment. I worry about her health, but I don’t think of myself as having been through a lot. But then there was divorce and cancer surgery years ago and in recent years the hip, and I realized she has always been there for me.

Bittersweet: neither of us travel these days, so I doubt we’ll ever hug again. Makes that phone conversation all the more precious. I have her number in my computer, and I intend now to all often and a lot. Email isn’t enough.

Of gardens and change and aging

 

A corner of my yard two years ago

Microsoft or whatever genie lives inside my computer decided today to show me pictures of the garden two years ago when it was lush and green. It was particularly inappropriate today because John, the lawn guy, came this morning to walk the yard, talk about what was hopeless, what might come back, what to do through the winter. The new rosemary is toast, the honeysuckle needs to be cut way back and should be pulled—you know it was hot if it killed honeysuckle. The lantana might make it. And so it goes. Of course, in this uncertain world, the weather is one of the most uncertain—he said if we have an early killer frost, as we did last year, it will be a double whammy some plants might not survive. But our new grass is strong and good—a bright spot.

This focus on change came on a day when I read two blogs about aging and change. The first, “More Than a Shoe Part” by John Clark on the Maine Crime Writers blog, talked about “lasts.” When was the last time you did something that you know you will never do again in your lifetime—rode a rollercoaster, went fishing on slippery rocks, climbed a mountain or hiked ten miles. He had a friend who went hunting and had to use his rifle as a cane to get home—you know that was a last.

Susan Witting Albert, writing Senior Chronicle #2 in her Place and Thyme column on Substack, also talked of the things she no longer does, though she suggested that we now have more power with the things we do. On her list of lasts were a brisk two-mile hike every morning, foreign travel, driving around the country on book tours, intense gardening. But Susan points out that technology now enables us to do much of that virtually—an author may not tour bookstores but through social media can stay in touch with readers, we may not travel but we can visit far-off lands virtually (I love videos about Scotland). We need not be confined by age; it’s simply different.

On my list of lasts, things I know I won’t do again are another trip to Scotland, probably another trip home to Chicago where I grew up (my urge to go these places is overridden by my dislike of flying these days). Sitting on a dune in the Indiana Dunes watching the sun set over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Giving a big old party for sixty of my nearest and dearest. Briskly walking my neighborhood and studying the ever-present changes—a walker makes that difficult. Driving a car, though I must say I don’t miss that so much. I adore my little VW convertible Bug, but I don’t want to drive her again.

But there are so many things I do daily that bring me joy—keeping in touch with children and grands, reading and writing, visiting with friends, cooking for my family, studying recipes, keeping up with the news and voicing my opinion. My days are full and happy and, I’ve said this a hundred times before, what I can no longer do is balanced by my wonderful memories of doing so much of it.

Some of you reading this are too young to think about lasts, but I know others my age or close to it read my blog. So what’s on your list of lasts and how do you feel about that? I used to think ahead to retirement and worry about what I would do all day, how I would feel about the things that slipped away from my life. What I’ve found is that’s not a problem at all—it’s lovely to look back at the memories, but it’s also lovely to be in the present, to enjoy the now.

What happened to my childhood friends?

 

Promontory Point on Chicago's South Side
Scene of much high school fun

These days, girls have lots of BFFs (best friends forever). I had two from my school days. I may have mentioned Barbara, my best friend in high school who has lived almost all of her adult life in or around Jackson MS. Over the years, we’ve seen each other occasionally and we keep in regular touch through email and Facebook. It’s stll a close and treasured relationship.

But the story is different with Eleanor Lee, my first BFF. We met in a Brownie troop at the church where her mother was secretary. How I happened to go to that troop is a puzzle, because it was not my church. But it was a fortunate puzzle, since I ended up active in that church all during high school (my parents church had no strong teen program, a different and long story).

Yesterday, Eleanor Lee’s older sister, Liz Helman, sent me two thick envelopes. One contained the memorial I had written a few years ago when Eleanor Lee died. The other had obituaries and a farewell letter written by the husband of one of our close high school friends. I was maid of honor at their wedding, though now I can’t remember where it was held, except not in the church of our youth and not even, I don’t think, in Chicago. I had not kept in touch with Allan after Bernice’s death, but I do remember visiting them a couple of times, once when I was in Portland for a meeting and they traveled up from somewhere in Oregon to take me to spend a day at their home. Makes me wish memories were clearer or that I had paid more attention to the moment when it was happening. I think I have spent too much of my life anticipating the next thing to the detriment of my enjoyment of the moment. Better late than never, I also think I am better at that these days. Stay in the moment, is my mantra—or one of them

But it was the memorial tribute to Eleanor Lee that brought tears of both laughter and sadness. When I first started to read it, I thought it was from another friend—Eleanor Lee’s other BFF. But one sentence in, I recognized I had written it, recounting all the adventures of our young lives. I used to spend the night at Eleanor Lee’s a lot, and I still remember the first night my dad took me there. Her great-grandmother, Mamie, then in her eighties at least, spent a lot of time telling Dad how safe and sturdy the house was—and I’m sure it was, because it was one of those duplexes built in the 1890s. Dad must have believed her, because he left me. That house became the center of my social life, even through high school when there were long evenings of pizza and chess with a crowd of teenagers. And in the dark of night, an army of cockroaches came out in the kitchen. Eleanor Lee thought it was funny and named them. I was appalled.

We had other adventures, from summer vacations at my family’s cottage in the Indiana Dunes to weekends sunbathing with our crowd at Promontory Point and dipping my toes in Lake Michigan. Others swam in the rocky, deep water, but I was too cautious.

Eleanor Lee graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Illinois College and promptly married a boy we had all known, one who probably didn’t finish high school. We drifted apart, the distance heightened when Frank And Eleanor moved to Escondido. Eventually our communication was down to Christmas cards, and her messages were always recitations of tragic events—a divorce, the death of a relative, a problem with a child.

I visited them once when I was at a meeting in San Diego and had Jamie and Jordan, then quite young, with me. I remember a dinner on a wharf and a trip to the famous hotel, Del Coronado on Coronado Island. It’s another moment which I wish I could recall more clearly. Now, her sister, Liz, who had always been one of the “older” kids, seems to have taken on the job of keeping me in touch with the past, and I am grateful. Shortly after Eleanor Lee died, I heard several times from her daughter, also named Eleanor. Now I only get an occasional phone call.

It's been said that when a person disappears or drops out of your life, it means their part in your story is over. Makes me sad, makes me think if I had paid more attention, if I had been a better friend and not so wrapped up in my own life. But then again, perhaps there is no need for guilt. Maybe it is what it is.

“The moving finger having writ, moves on …” (The Ráibiyát by Omar Khayyam)

The little red trike

A little fuzzy--they must have been speeding

A picture popped up today on the memories Microsoft or whoever send you that tugged at my heart—it’s Jacob riding the little red trike that was so much a fixture of my grandchildren’s young years, with his cousin Morgan trying to dislodge him. There’s a story behind that trike. It was given to my children when they were very little by my ex’s senior partner, a man I came to rely on and one who always had my back when times got rough. He was probably in his sixties at the time, maybe seventies—he’s been gone a long time—but he told me he had that trike as a child. We figure it's now at least a hundred years old.

It had obviously been repainted with “loving hands” and there was a big hole in the solid rubber front tire. Maddie riding it one day looked down and intoned in a true Texas accent, “There’s a hole in my tire.” It almost sounded like a line from a c/w song. The hole never stopped the action, and for years the trike lived in what was then a playroom in my house. The room was eventually stripped of hobbyhorse and trike and all other childish things and converted to a TV room.

But the trike went to my oldest son and resides somewhere at his house now, waiting for the next generation to fight over it. It brings sentimental tears to my eyes to think of all seven grands, only seven years apart, playing together in my house, always underfoot in the kitchen and fighting over that trike. Good times, good memories.

Nature is showing off for me today. This morning, when I first woke up, the adobe house across my yard was bathed in a rosy glow, and I thought it meant a sunny day. Not so. But the first time I looked out the window by my desk, my eyes landed on two gorgeous blue jays, their colors bright and vivid. They pecked around in the flower bed for a while and then took off—I couldn’t even tell which one was mama and which papa because they were both so colorful. So much for the drab female!

Tonight, the sky to the north was a blend of soft peach and blue-gray, colorful and pretty, but to the west it was a dramatic fiery orange—breathtaking. I tried taking a picture with my phone, but it didn’t capture the colors at all.

Otherwise, President’s Day was pretty much an ordinary day, with lots of catch-up details on my desk. I didn’t cook a lot over the weekend but did make a really good chicken dish last night. Jordan had been out of town for the weekend, so I thought to make a dish with one of her favorite ingredients—cream cheese. Of course, I missed up the order of things and forgot to sauté the onions and garlic before I deglazed the pan with white wine. So I let the wine cook down, added the onions, and swished them around—and they took on the most wonderful deep golden tone, mostly from the browned bits of chicken on the pan. I think I’ll do it that way from now on. Chicken broth, a bit of Dijon, and cream cheese made a creamy rich sauce—really good. Jordan is always on the lookout for dishes that Jacob likes, so she requested I put that one into our rotation. It’s a bit of work, but not too much. And the leftovers were so good today.

I’m excited that I have the cover for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. Ta da! Watch this space for a cover reveal tomorrow!

Totally content—well, almost

 

Home from the hospital.

As I write tonight, Jamie is sitting on the patio strumming his guitar to soothe Sophie, and it works—she is sound asleep. I would love to have him inside, but who would interrupt a man playing guitar for a sick and miserable dog. And for me, it’s a joy just to know he’s right there—I can hear the guitar faintly, and I can see him through the French doors.

Sophie may be home, but the news is not good. She apparently has a mass in her stomach. There is some chance that it is a foreign object she ate and has been unable to pass, but it is more likely a tumor. Colin quickly reminded me not all tumors are malignant. Sophie had the poor timing to get sick, twice now, over a long holiday weekend, so it will be Tuesday before we know what’s next. It will be a long weekend.

Meantime, Jordan is taking extraordinary care of her, doing all the things I can’t get down on the ground to do. The vet’s office gave her instructions on how to feed with a syringe (Soph is not at all interested in food, this dog who used to steal whatever she could off counters). Jordan also successfully gave an insulin shot tonight—the only agonized reaction was from Jamie. Soph didn’t seem to mind. She’s terribly lethargic, and I miss my wild, mischievous child, but we can all tell she is glad to be home. And we are glad to have her. Jordan plans to sleep on my couch tonight, so she can listen for her.

Junie among the flowers.

It's a doggie-down weekend. June Bug, one of the Burtons’ Cavalier Spaniels, outlived her life expectancy—and a heart attack and stroke—several years ago. Poor baby has been on her last legs for a long time, but today she has taken a downhill turn. Her back legs aren’t working right, and Junie, who is always ravenous and loves to steal Sophie’s food, wouldn’t eat her own dinner tonight. So Christian is on watch in the house while Jordan is out in the cottage.

Suppertime in the
cottage.

It's always a joy to have Jamie come to visit. I benefited from his guitar this afternoon and thought how soothing it was to sit and listen to him. He is frustrated that I don’t recognize even songs I know and love—I have a tin ear, and I can tell him it’s Joan Baez, but I can’t tell him it’s “Diamonds and Rust” until I hear the lyrics. We had planned to go out for supper but, of course, could not leave Sophie, so we ordered in. Jamie ordered Mama’s Pizza (his favorite since high school) while Jordan, Christian, and I had dinners from Pacific Table.

We’ve talked of kids—my grandkids—and, with Christmas fresh in our minds, started planning for Christmas 2023 which will be an Alter Family Christmas. We’ve talked about food and fun times in the past, and Jamie’s disappointment that the idea of taking me for a train trip won’t work—the bedrooms, he says, are not what they appear in the pictures but are small with bunk beds. He keeps saying, “But you love trains, and I like them too.” I told him it’s true, I do love a train trip, but like many things, train trips are among the memories I treasure. It’s hard to make someone fifty years of age understand that in my eighties there are many things I know I can’t or won’t do again, but it’s okay because I have the wonderful memories. Train trips among them—and my memories start when I was a very young child, and my parents used to take me on Pullman sleepers from Chicago to Toronto to see the Canadian relatives. But I am touched by Jamie’s determination—he is now working on Plan B. He says he wants to give an experience, not material goods.

Jamie and his fire

Jamie lit a fire in the pit on my patio, and he, Jordan, and I sat out there. Jordan provided me with my insulated jacket (some forty years old), a blanket for my legs, and a heater. Jame built a fire that, as I told him, would have made Jack Boyd, his old Boy Scout leader, proud. Sophie lay on the patio, the small evergreen tree was festooned with Christmas lights, and that light system Jordan put up sprayed tiny green lights on the trees, my children’s faces, and the wall of the neighbor’s casita on the other side of my yard. It was an absolutely idyllic moment, and I kept telling myself to relax and enjoy. It doesn’t get much better. And I am still making memories.

Mellow moods don’t come easily to me, but tonight has put me in a mellow mood, grateful for the blessings of my life, for children who care so much about me and my dog and who I love so much. I am optimistic about 2023.

Christmas isn’t what it was

The Alter grands with gingerbread houses,
Several years ago, apparently in Austin.

The other day I read a blog about memories of Christmas with four little ones and the logistics of figuring out equal presents and stocking gifts. I wanted to say, “Hold my wine!” When my four were little, their Jewish father was still part of our household, so we celebrated Hannukah and Christmas both. Do the math—that meant eight days of gifts for four children for Hanukkah, plus stocking stuffers for Christmas morning, plus “out” gifts (something big and showy that Santa left, unwrapped, under the tree—or beside it or at least in the same room), and then individual, wrapped gifts under the tree. In that day, before spread sheets, I made my own flow charts.

For some reason I remember particularly the year that the “out” gift was oversize (I mean huge) Tinker Toys out of which Joel built a life-size playhouse for the kids. And then, of course there was the year they discovered their unwrapped gifts in the guest room closet—it ruined Christmas, they confessed, but I guess every kid does that once. My memories of those Christmases are of hectic confusion, gleeful noise, lots of planning, a frantic Christmas morning, a huge turkey dinner—and sweet exhaustion at the end of the day. Nothing will ever be quite the same again, although when all sixteen Alters celebrated together when the grands were little, it was joyful, mass confusion.

Jean said to me tonight at supper, “Christmas just isn’t what it used to be,” and I replied, “Of course it isn’t. Things change. Life moves on.” This is the season when a lot of us, particularly those of us who are in our golden years, look back on the past with longing. I have several widowed friends who are lonely, missing their spouses. One wrote of the difficulty of filling time right now, and finally confessed, “I miss my soulmate.” Of course, she does, and it must be a bitter, deep down missing that I cannot fathom. I resisted the urge to say, “You have memories of a lifetime with your soulmate. I, long divorced, have no such treasure to call on at this season.” But I have a large family of children and grands—that is my joy. My point is that each of us comes at this Christmas memory business from our unique history. The memories I treasure are not the same as the days you may miss.

But my rather harsh message to Jean and others is, “Get over it!” Of course, Christmas isn’t the same. The world isn’t the same. Everything changes, grows, moves on. Life isn’t static. Part of growing old gracefully (and yes, Jean, you really do a beautiful job of it--sorry to use you as an example) is that things aren’t like they were twenty or thirty years ago. One of the compensations of aging, to me, is calling up memories and, yes, dwelling on them. Live in the past for a few moments. Treasure those times.

But also look around you. Count the blessings you have now. This year, I will not spend Christmas surrounded by Alters—it is what we call in the family an “off year” and my four and their families will spend the holiday with their in-laws: Colin and his family will be in Tomball with Lisa’s mom, our beloved Torhild; Megan and group are flying to Belize with Brandon’s father for some scuba diving and who know what else; Jamie and Mel will welcome Mel’s parents and Eden, home from school, but will spend their first Christmas without Maddie, who is going home with her boyfriend, Trevor—they were with us last year in Austin. Maddie’s family will be sad and miss her (and I know she’ll miss them) but that’s another example of things change: Maddie is building her own life. And next year we’ll have another Alter Christmas. (Why does that make me hear in my mind, “Next year in Jerusalem!”)

Jordan and Christian will welcome his family on Christmas Day, and instead of going to Tomball as I usually do on “off” years I’ll stay here. Jordan is determined to go to midnight candlelight service at University Christian—I am still waffling, but to do that would be to recapture a bit of Christmases past. We haven’t been here at Christmas for ten years, so this is important. But with flu, covid, bitter cold weather, and late hours, I may opt to watch it on my computer. That’s okay. That’s one of the choices I can make about my own celebration of Christmas this year.

Christmas this year, any year, may not be what it was, but for each of us, it is what we make of it. I wish you all the blessings of the season, the joys of the Christmas message, and lots of sweet memories and warm dreams. Hey, maybe a bit of eggnog too.

Another Halloween in the books

 

Jordan and I have taken the same picture for several Halloweens now. In truth, I think I look better this year than in some previous years (well, maybe not--I just looked again), but she always makes an adorable witch. We live in an older neighborhood with sidewalks, big houses (ours is not), and generous people—which means that hordes of people come trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. There are traffic jams, cars parked end to end in every available spot, and a steady stream of children—and adults—coming to the front porch carrying everything from pumpkin shaped containers to pillowcases. Some of the tricksters are so young, they can barely toddle up the walk, and I said I think a few must be wondering, “Why are my parents doing this to me? I want to be home in my bed.” Nonetheless, it’s all festive and fun.

Christian claims Halloween as one of his favorite holidays, and he decorates inside and out lavishly. The front yard has skeletons and tombstones and scary spiders, none of which the kids pay much attention to. But he and Jordan both are in their element handing our candy to kids, and some of the kids are irresistible.

I spent some time tonight talking to one of Jordan’s high school friends—he was her very first boyfriend and is still family—and he said, “It wasn’t like this when we were kids.” But he grew up in another neighborhood. The kids and I lived in Berkeley for two years when I was first a single mom, and I don’t remember the crowds either. But when we moved back in 1992, they were here and have been every year since. After my kids were grown and gone, some years I turned out all the lights and hid in my study (the light from the computer gave me away, but most people were respectful). A few years I was in Austin for Texas Book Festival and handed out treats at Megan’s house—in those years Jordan generally came to man the front porch at my house. Other years I turned out the lights and went next door to the neighbors’, where Susan served beef stew and, artist that she is, provided grocery sack costumes for each of us. Yes, Halloween has pleasant memories even if it is not my favorite holiday.

Sophie did not like it at all tonight. She knew I was going into the big house—her instinct for that is unerring—and she is immediately insistent that she go too. Tonight, Jacob came to get me (I need help on the stairs to the deck) and locked her in the bathroom until I was safely inside. Then he let her out but kept her locked in the cottage. She’s one of the reasons I came back out early. I don’t mind leaving her alone when I go out to dinner or something, but I feel guilty when she knows I’m on the property and she’s not allowed.

Now that I’m back, she’s in the yard, but she just started barking, so I tricked her into coming inside. I am definitely over-protective of her, but Halloween is one of those nights when I feel it best to keep dogs and cats—and rabbits and whatever you have—inside. You never know. Sophie neither understands nor likes my logic and is itching to go outside.

Jordan fixed her usual delicious spread of veggies and dip, and various guests brought potato salad, dip and chips, etc. I contributed green bean salad, one of my favorite new recipes  (who needs a recipe for bean salad, but you’d be surprised by this one), and Christian grilled hamburgers. But a little after seven, he had just started the grill, and with thirteen people on the porch, plus the crowd on the street, it was getting so noisy I couldn’t hear. Jordan walked me back to the cottage and about seven-forty-five brought me a plate of supper. So good! But I was glad to be back in my quiet cottage.

By nine, nine-thirty or so, the crowds melt into the darkness, and Halloween is over for another year. And I’m always a bit glad. So the decorations will go down, and the world will return to normal. Next up, Thanksgiving, and think how fast it’s coming!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Fun on the weekend

 

My blog has been quiet for a couple of nights, mostly because there didn’t seem to be much to say. I worked at my desk, but nothing seemed remarkable. Maybe I just had a springtime case of the blahs. Anyway, the Alter/Burtons had fun this weekend.

The picture above was taken Saturday night at HG Sply when Jamie came to visit (that’s Jamie leaning over my shoulder—Jacob, the picture taker, sort of cut half of himself off). Jamie lives in Frisco, but his work as sales manager for an international toy company takes him all over, especially to Los Angeles where he spends a lot of time (happy coincidence: his youngest daughter, Eden, is in school at UCLA). Upshot is Jamie doesn’t often have time to get to Fort Worth, so his visit is always a treat.

Dinner at HG Sply was a new treat for me. We ate on the patio, which was handicap accessible (it’s a long walk from the parking, so Jamie pushed me in the transport chair). Because of a funny quirk in my digestion, I am watching what I eat—so I happily watched myself eat salmon, sweet potato and grilled avocado half with chimichurri sauce. Wonderful meal! After dinner, we sat around, visited, laughed a lot, and had a good time.

Friday night, Jean and I planned to go to our favorite Japanese restaurant, Tokyo Café, but by the time we called, they were booked. So Jean got us take-out—she had a yakisoba noodles with tofu and vegetables (no tofu for me, thank you!). I ordered salmon crudo—I had scant idea what it would be except that it had salmon sashimi. It was delicious but next time I’ll probably just order sashimi.

Today, Jordan and Christian went to the Hidden Garden Tour in Fort Worth—all the gardens were in Crestwood, a lovely older neighborhood with beautiful trees and grand old homes. Despite of unseasonably high temperatures, they report a good time. I like the TCU skeleton.

So tonight, we’re all home, and I have fixed a cilantro/lime chicken salad. We’ll have a green salad with it. And I have a good book for the evening.

The week wasn’t that blah, really. I did a lot of work. Finding Florence went to beta readers, and I already have the first report back, so that’s tomorrow’s project. I wrote my May column for Lone Star Literary Life (if you don’t know that free, online weekly newsletter, you should look it up), I did an small editing job for a nonprofit here in Fort Worth, wrote a book review, and finished the recipe section for Finding Florence, despite the fact that the computer kept eating the recipes. Now, as another week looms, I have projects to look forward to—edits on the new mystery, a story/recipe to compose, and choices to make about my next project.

I close with a nostalgic picture of the Alters on the Fort Worth Zoo train—Jacob must have been no more than three or four, but I can’t imagine what accounts for the funny look on his face. A good memory.

Hope this is a good week for everyone—may the weather cool off in Texas.

Bragging on grandchildren

 

Morgan and her clarinet

Got to brag on this Easter eve on my sweet Tomball granddaughter, Morgan Helene Alter. She is setting high school on fire. Morgan has been active in the marching band all through high school, playing the clarinet, practicing and rehearsing in all kinds of weather. Most recently, she and a group of band friends got together an ensemble, and now they’ve advanced from regional to state competition.

Morgan seems to be good at competitions. She is active in an organization called Family Community Career Leaders of America. In recent competition, her local group was in the food innovation category, and they put their own spin on Hello Fresh and other meal delivery services. They developed lunch box kits, created their own recipes, did taste tests, marketing research, and much more. They won the regional competition in Galveston and advanced to state in Dallas. Although they did not move up to national, Morgan and her colleagues all thought it was a great experience.

The FCCLA group is not Morgan’s first brush with food and cooking. She has been helping her mom in the kitchen for years, and it is a tradition every year that she fixes her dad a Father’s Day meal. Last year it was Beef Wellington with crème brûlée for dessert. I need to take cooking lessons from that girl!

One Sunday some fifteen years ago, all my grandkids were dedication in my church. We lined them all up on the chancel steps for a group picture with Madison, the oldest, holding Kegan, the youngest, then something like three weeks old. But it was Morgan who stole the show—she kept edging away from the group, giving them looks like, “I don’t want to be associated with them.” An independent spirit from the start. And a daddy’s girl—I remember how frantic she was, at maybe four, when her dad helped carry a chiffarobe up to the second floor of Jordan and Christians house.

Other scenes flash through my mind—when I babysat Morgan and Kegan and she told me she’d eat a whole tube of sweet rolls for breakfast. I told her she wouldn’t., but I made her open up her bedroom and get some fresh air in the space where she’d been hibernating. (I had a daughter who did that too.) Or her fondness for bread—one night at Texas Roadhouse when she quietly ate four or five rolls before we even got out dinner.

Or the weekend Colin and Morgan had come to Fort Worth. As they packed up to go home, Morgan said, "I think I've got everything, Juju," and I turned around to see that she had Sophie neatly tucked under her arm. 

And now all of a sudden, she’s such a lovely young woman. At Christmas just past, I had a couple of good visits with her, without the whole fam damily around, and was so pleased and proud of the person she’s become. Kudos to her and her parents.

Other grandchildren are doing well: Maddie, the oldest, has had a year out of school after earning her bachelor’s, but is preparing to start that advanced post-grad nursing program in June. And Kegan, Morgan’s brother, is limping along on crutches but hopes his broken tibia will heal in time for summer workouts. My suggestion of golf falls on deaf ears with him.

It's such a joy to watch grandchildren grow and develop—each their own person, each developing in such individual ways. I have Sawyer, who’s a genius on the guitar, and his brother, Ford, who’s an all-star baseball, basketball, soccer star, Eden at UCLA who excels equally in academics and college social life, Jacob and his absorption with golf. I look at them all with such pride.

Oh yeah, there are lots of days when I think back to the years when they were all toddlers—they did all arrive in bunches—and I get nostalgic. I want that cuddly little boy who adored me back, but he’s been replaced by a lanky, deep-voiced teen-ager who doesn’t talk a lot (though his sense of humor is intact). Or I want Edie back who used to say to me, “I believe I’d like to watch the food channel now, Juju.”

Grandparenthood (is that a word?) is like a lot of the rest of life as you age—you enjoy the present moment and treasure the memories. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Happy Easter, Passover, and Ramadan to those who celebrate. Tis a wonderful time of year, this spring season of renewal. My cup runneth over--I hope yours does too.

Morgan's mom, Lisa, on balloon duty 
for Easter at their church

A staycation day

 

How I spent my staycation day

In his column this morning, New York Times food editor Sam Sifton wrote that everyone needs a day away in these troubled times. We are in the third year of the pandemic and the third week of Russia’s brutal, bloody invasion of Ukraine. Be kind to yourself. Take a day to lie on the couch (notice I said lie, not lay) and read a book.

For me, it was a lazy day to begin with because we got a late start on it, due to daylight savings, which I welcome wholeheartedly. I know a lot of people moan and groan, but I love sleeping a bit later in the morning, and I love the long, light evenings when we can sit outside, barring mosquitoes, until eight or nine. Some people claim they’d be happy if the government would just choose one or the other, but I would be devastated if they chose central time. All those dark depressing days when it gets dark before supper.

On my agenda today was—not much. Virtual church, check my email, that’s about it. Christian is cooking chicken piccata, and my only responsibility is green beans. I’m trying a new, easy cook method I read about—toss with olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper and bake at 325 for 25 minutes. Supposed to come out crisp as French fries. I’ll let you know. (They weren’t crisp, and Jordan had a texture problem; I thought they were okay but nothing to write home about.)

So I spent much of the day reading Bitter Roots by Ellen Cosby, the latest in her mysteries set in the wine country of northern Virginia. It is hands down the most expensive Kindle book I’ve ever read. I guess the publisher was counting on avid readers like me to throw budget to the wind. I am savoring every word at that price and hoping it ends being worth the cost. I have never been comfortable reading in a prone position, so I read sitting at my desk, with the text on my screen. My place of comfort.

Tonight I did have an inspiration for getting my novel out of the corner I’d written myself into, but again I could not get my computer to hold a WiFi connection. Last night I gave up and went to bed, but I really wanted to get this scene down tonight. A hard boot seems to have done it. I couldn’t even contact ATT technical service because I had no service. Fingers crossed please that this connection lasts. But I really need to call AT&T, a conversation I dread. It’s never their fault, and the fix will cost you bigtime.

A meme I saw today that hit home with me: someone wrote that their morning routine these days is, “Get up. Check on Zelensky. Make coffee.” That’s how I feel too. I am so afraid for that heroic man—he needs not to be a martyr but to continue to inspire and lead his countrymen. If Kyiv falls, as it looks like it will, I hope they get him out. I’m sure he won’t leave Ukraine, but he might be persuaded to leave Kyiv. The world is too much with us.

On a lighter note: I looked at the box of Ritz crackers I used last night for the crumb-topped fish and thought of my mom. Salmon croquettes was one of her favorite dishes and remains mine, but she always insisted you must use saltine crumbs and nothing else. These days I use Ritz—they are richer and much easier to crush. Make such good salmon patties. And for just a moment there, I wanted to make Mom my salmon patties. She’s been gone over thirty years, but you never get over missing. And wanting to call and say, “Mom, do you know how I’ve learned to cook salmon croquettes?”

Blessed Sunday everyone as we head into a new week. May it bring peace and health to the world—and joy to all of us. We need a bit of that.