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.”

 

An ordinary Sunday with a touch of France

 

Well, I had hoped to take you with me on a vicarious tour of Paris, but all I got today from Jordan were a couple of selfies and this one terrific picture of her by the Eiffel Tower. She talked of a sunset cruise on the Seine, and I expected lovely pictures—maybe tomorrow. She did have lunch today in the restaurant on the third level of the Eiffel—hake (a South American light, whitefish), chocolate mousse and “flowing champagne.” How will we ever keep her down on the farm after such a lunch.

After lunch, she was headed for the sunset cruise, but we’ve had no report. I suspect after a long flight yesterday, champagne at lunch, and a sunset cruise, she was ready for bed. Perhaps more pictures tomorrow.

Not to be outdone by Jordan’s lunch, I must report I had branzino filets for supper with lime juice and sugar snap peas. Alas, no flowing champagne—just a modest glass of white wine. Branzino is a whitefish found mostly in Mediterranean waters It tickled me that Jordan, in Paris, was eating a South American fish while I, on this side of the pond, was eating one from the Mediterranean. Our modern world!

Other than that it was an unremarkable day. Christian and Jacob went to Coppell to have early dinner with Christian’s dad—at Babe’s. I thought Christian would come home and fall asleep, having eaten too much fried chicken, but he was indignant, said he didn’t even finish his chicken, and wss working on a project on the front porch—getting ready, I guess, for his usual gorgeous display of summer blooms.

Neighbor Polly Hooper, who takes magnificent pictures of all Berkeley functions, came over tonight because I was having trouble downloading her photos for the neighborhood newsletter. What she showed me was so basic and simple, I was ashamed that I did not figure it out on my own. But it gave us a good chance to visit over glasses of wine and catch up.

Polly’s visit sent me in search of a file on my computer that I can’t find and can’t figure how it disappeared. She is researching painted churches of Texas, and I told her I once wrote a short story titled “Prisoners” about the WWII Italian POWs who painted the chapel of the church at Umbarger, Texas. Blithely assuming I could find it, I promised to send her a copy of the short story. But my entire file of short stories has disappeared. It’s probably not the end of the world, because they are on file in the Southwest Writers Collection at Texas State University-San Marcos, but I am unsure how easily they are retrievable. And It makes me beyond uneasy to realize that an entire file just disappeared. The collection is Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, available on Amazon.

Polly did a really good thing while she was here—and taught me a lesson. Sophie has a bad habit—barking at me demandingly when there is happy hour company. I think it’s a combination of things—she’s hungry, she associates late afternoon company with food, and she wants attention. Jordan loses patience and threatens to go in the house, and I end up talking sternly to Soph about bad behavior. Neither is effective.

Sophie was particularly bad tonight, annoying, and it was hard to talk. Polly called her over, took gentle hold of her collar, told her to sit, and said, “This mean old lady is not going to put up with that.” She talked gently to her but held firm on the collar, and when Sophie tried to get up, Polly said, “This mean old lady says sit down.” Once I truly saw Sophie roll her eyes at Polly, and I almost laughed aloud. But pretty soon, Soph was lying on her back, asking for tummy rubs. And she was quiet after that—wandering in and out, lying quietly. We could talk and hear ourselves.

Sophie had one other adventure this weekend—she discovered a baby possum in the flowerbed under the window by my desk. Curious, but with no bad intentions, she jumped up and down, her bark shrill and frantic with excitement. As is my lazy habit, I sat at my desk and thought, I’ve got to do something about that. My only option is not always effective—it’s to wheel to the door, tell her to stop barking, and offer her cheese. But Christian beat me to it, and the next thing I knew he was at the open French doors with a huge shovel. He explained she had found a dead baby possum, and I asked if maybe it was playing possum. Turns out I was right. He put Sophie in the house, got the shovel, and went back only to find the possum gone.

I couldn’t resist. “What were you going to do with the shovel?” His answer, “Throw it over the fence.” I replied, “Gently, I hope. Possums are our friends.” He was astounded. “They are? I thought they were rodents.” I didn’t go into a lecture about marsupials, but I did tell him one possum can eat a thousand fleas and tick a day. I think he was impressed. I always like to enlighten that city boy.

So that’s my day. I’m reading a good mystery and going to spend the rest of the evening with it. Sweet dreams. Maybe tomorrow, more of a French tour.

Little excitements

We had little excitements last night, little that is if you weren’t the visiting possum. I was at my desk, reading, about 8:30 when Sophie tore out the door and began barking frantically. Not a squirrel bark but something much more intense. I finally looked up just in time to see a possum scurry across the patio. I hurried to take my phone to the door for a picture but didn’t make it. The possum had taken shelter under a small table, and Sophie was gleefully dancing around the table, almost sticking her nose under it, barking all the while. If that possum had an ounce of courage, it would have taken a swipe at her nose.

What to do? I didn’t think it wise for me and my walker to charge out there, and I knew Jordan had gone with Jacob to the neighbors’ pool, because he wanted a swim. I called Christian, who sounded a tad reluctant, saying, “I’ll come, but I don’t know what I can do.” He came after several minutes, armed with—wait for it!—his phone.

By that time, Sophie had miraculously come bounding into the cottage, and I slammed the door. Sophie then was jumping around, wanting me to open the door, which I refused. Christian was taking pictures of the possum, and it beat a hasty retreat.

After a few minutes, Jordan came out, armed with—wait for it again!—a broom. I asked what she intended to do with it, and she replied she was just going to encourage the critter away. Fortunately, it was gone. We opened the door and Sophie bolted out to search the yard fruitlessly.

I had to explain to my two nature-loving protectors that possums are neither harmful nor vicious. They eat tons of all those bugs we want to get rid of—mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks. They are our friends, although I doubt if that particular friend will ever venture back into my yard.

I’d had a moment of excitement earlier, when Christian stood by my desk and said, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden wants to go swimming.” I promise, I had my hearing aids in but what I heard was, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden lost his sense of smell.” Panic! I managed to say it calmly, “I hope he doesn’t have the virus.” Christian looked at me as though he thought I had clearly gone round the bend this time.

I even had little excitements this morning. Either my computer or I have been saving files under the wrong name—this morning, when I opened a short biography I’d written for an essay submission, it turned out to be last night’s blog. Yesterday, I “lost” the entire text of my new novel—what popped up was the header and one sentence from a column in the neighborhood newsletter—both in Dropbox and on the pc. Fortunately I had sent it to the formatter, and she supplied a copy which I saved very carefully.  Lesson learned—I think I get in a rush and don’t notice that the computer is saving things under the title of whatever was last saved. Scared me though.

One other bit of bad excitement—my car wouldn’t start for Jacob last night. He is tasked with starting it occasionally and asked last night if he could back it up just a bit. It was dead, though it had been started last weekend. Jordan was all for selling it immediately, but with Christian’s advice, I ordered a car battery starter. It’s not parked so that we can put another car next to it and jump it.

That’s enough excitement for one day. Peace, y’all, and be safe and well.

This, that and nothing

Sunday is the day I post Potluck with Judy and usually don't do Judy's Stew, but I have to say something about how amazing the service was this morning at University Christian Church. The entire service was John Rutter's Requiem with full choir and orchestra--all as background for the offering and communion, with the usual prayer and a brief homily. I'm not a good listener--movies, concerts, events which require me to sit still for long make me antsy. But I went to church alone this morning, resolved to let the music just wash over me--and it did. It was, of course, an All Saints Day service of remembrance for those we've lost, and many people went forward to light candles. Heartbreaking to see one young woman, holding the hand of a child, come back down the aisle in tears. I didn't light candles but I thought about two friends who lost their husbands this year, and then I thought I haven't been touched much by death, except for losing my parents. But as I meditated, with that glorious musical background (The Twenty-Third Psalm was part of it), I realized that over the years I've lost many people who were important and special to me. It was indeed a good day of remembrance, to hold treasured memories close.
And a beautiful fall day, though I still found it chilly. I had the sinking feeling I may be too cold all winter. Sophie has reacted to the cold weather by spending the day sleeping in her favorite chair--I've given up the battle of telling her to get down, because the minute my back is turned she's up there again. So now she can get on three pieces of furniture--the chair in my office, Jacob's bed, and the couch if Jacob invites her.
A bit of unpleasantness--turns out there was a dead possum behind the garage apartment. A neighbor called both me and Jordan, afraid that Sophie would chew on it--I suspect she's far too refined a dog. Jordan suggested I call the next-door neighbor, but I said he's more squeamish than I am. I called Greg, my friend/yard guy, and he came down and disposed of it while I was at church. Grateful for good friends and concerned neighbors.
Depressing to me to have it turn dark at 6:30. I fixed a comfort meal--scrambled eggs and bacon, a roasted slice of cabbage (see Potluck with Judy for this amazingly easy treat), and a Clementine--I bought a whole bag of them and it turns out Jacob won't eat them.
Off to write a book review and maybe turn on the fire in the fireplace. Good night to feel cozy.