A not-so-minor explosion

June Bug enjoying happy hour on the patio

You know that big storm we had last night? The one that came up in two minutes flat, turned daylight to immediate dark, and blew so hard I feared for my lovely old oaks? Yes, that one. It was nothing compared to the explosion in the cottage this afternoon.

Let me back up. My younger son, Jamie, is coming over from Frisco this week. Knowing he’s partial to Diet Coke (which makes his mother frown because of the aspartame), Jordan bought a twelve-pack and stocked my fridge. Four cans left over, so I put them on the butcher block and this afternoon was busily transferring them to the bottom shelf.

I dropped one! I’m not sure how, perhaps my hand was wet and slippery. But it fell at my feet, puncturing a hole in the surprisingly fragile can and sending sticky sweet liquid everywhere. I resigned myself to mopping the floor and wiping down some of the other things on the bottom shelf.

Just then Jordan walked in, looked at my desk  (probably five or six feet from the kitchen) and asked, “What happened? It’s all wet?” The more she looked, the more frustrated she became. Long story short, she mopped the floor three times, washed down cabinets and walls, appliances and the fridge and sink, muttering all the while about a forthcoming invasion of ants. She found it in my bedroom (next to the kitchen) and at the other end of the cottage on the coffee table. She was hot and frustrated, and I sat helplessly by. I know better than to get in her way. Worst of it is she had spent an hour and a half yesterday thoroughly cleaning the cottage.

Sophie observed all this with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. She watched from the bedroom doorway and then tried to investigate what was on the floor when Jordan pulled out the butcher block. Jordan kept saying, “Out from under my feet!”

Order is restored, and I’m going to cook one of Jordan’s favorite dinners—spinach fettucine with mushrooms, artichoke hearts, green onion, pesto, and lots of lemon and butter. The boys can fend for themselves since they don’t eat mushrooms or artichoke hearts.

I did a bit of creative cooking earlier today. Made gazpacho from a recipe by Texas food and travel writer and cook extraordinaire June Naylor Harris, only I halved it and made it my own by substituting green onion for a red onion and leaving out the serrano chile. I am just not a chile person—I guess it’s because way back when, over fifty-five years ago, I was a northerner, and I’ve just never learned to like spicy. I’m letting it chill until tomorrow, but it smells wonderful.

It was a joy tonight to sit on the patio comfortably. The air is not cool but not oppressively hot, and we had the fan on. Loved being out there again and not cooped up behind closed doors. I wish spring and fall in Texas lasted all year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

The importance of neatness and organization

My living room

cluttered with research

Ever since I’ve been in my tiny cottage, I’ve stressed the importance of keeping a small space free from clutter and mess. Twelve-year-old Jacob has been the particular recipient of my repetitive lectures. So here’s how my space looks these days. My desk is a cluttered mess, and my living/entertaining space not much better.

The problem? Research materials for my latest writing project. Papers are strewn everywhere, as I try to put all these photocopies in meaningful order—important, marginal, probably not useful. The problem is complicated because I inherited someone else’s research—more on that story another time.

Yesterday, friends from TCU Press came to do a podcast, and I felt obliged to make a clean

sweep of my desk, hiding most of the loose papers and stacking the couple of books and magazines in a neat pile. Jordan came along and promptly laid a couple of loose sheets on top, destroying the balance—I incorporated them into the pile. But by last night, my desk looked as you see it in the picture. You’d think I could at least read Bon Appetit and get it out of the way, but it takes me two or three times through a cooking magazine before I can discard it. I must be sure I’m not missing a recipe I can’t live without. And these days I am driven to go through all those research papers in that huge box, so reading fiction or food magazines seems a little frivolous to me.

Typical of my dilemma—yesterday I came across a master’s these that could be central, but it was missing the first forty pages, including the attribution. I wasn’t sure who wrote it, where it might be stored, etc. Then I discovered I have it in digital form on my computer. I run into duplication all over the place. But I keep plugging away—and I’m having fun.

Yesterday was also a day of surprises. I washed my hair early so it would dry before the podcast—and then came an unexpected phone call. Rosa was here two days earlier than expected to cut my hair. I can’t say enough about Rosa, who’s been keeping me trim for years and has become a treasured friend along the way. Since getting out is a bit hard for me, she comes by on her way to the salon about once a month, and we get a good visit while she snips and cuts.

So there I was—trim and neat for the podcast, if not scintillating on camera. I haven’t seen it yet, but I will share when I do. We mostly rehashed my writing career.

Another surprise, less pleasant: when I tried to refill my ice water, the cube dispenser got stuck and sprayed ice cubes all over the kitchen. Not easy to sweep up from a walker. I swept, put the broom and dustpan away, opened the freezer—and sprayed a second batch of cubes all over. Repeat sweeping.

Pleasant to end the day at Pacific Table with Betty—Caesar salad, fried oysters, and a decadent chocolate brownie topped with peanut butter ice cream. I think my appetite is returning.