Potatoes, onions, and books—an odd combination

 

 

Feeling mellow and content tonight, after a nice (and easy) supper, a good visit with Jean and Jordan. It’s been a lazy day. In fact, it’s been a lazy week. I read an article this morning entitled, “Ten Things You Can Do Around the House to Avoid Writing,” and I thought I didn’t even need that article. I’d been procrastinating nicely on my own. The article made me think of Erma Bombeck (remember her?) who famously said when she rolled a blank sheet of paper into her typewriter, she’d rather go mop floors than write. This article suggested making an elaborate recipe—I did that tonight with--wait for it--marinated kale. More about that another time. Or folding laundry—I don’t do that so much. Walk your dog is pretty much out for me since I need the walker—I doubt Sophie would like that. Erma’s classic mop the floors is there, along with taking a nap. Now there’s a distraction I can agree with.

I do have a complaint though. Has anyone else noticed with dismay how big onions and potatoes are these days? Onions, even my beloved sweet onions, as big as a baseball. And the last couple I’ve tried to slice or dice are hard a rock. And potatoes five or six inches long. I tried to bake one for my supper last night. Used the British method and baked it at 200 for two hours—did not faze that potato. I tried to split it, fluff to let the steam out, as the British do, and I could not begin to split it. I upped the temperature and put it back twice, until it was nearly eight o’clock, and I was hungry. I could cut it, but it sure wasn’t fluffy and tender like you want your baked potato. What I had for dinner was essentially toppings—sour cream, bacon, green onion, grated cheddar with an occasional bit of potato thrown in. Delicious, but not substantial and probably not very good for you. I was so desperate to eat that my final trick was to try to bake just half the potato—didn’t help at all. I told myself I’d bake the other half for lunch today, but I was so disgusted I threw it out.

One problem is that of necessity I order most of my groceries delivered. I try to add a note that say, “Smallest onion you can, please—none of those humongous ones,” but it rarely does any good. It’s just not the same as picking out your groceries yourself. I try if the timing is right to ask Jordan to get them on her occasional grocery runs. But I think someone—farmers, grocers, whoever—has gotten carried away with the idea that bigger is better.

While I’m whining, here’s another complaint. I love seeing on the computer pictures of classic libraries. Some are old, with intricate railings around tiers and tiers of shelves, and you can almost smell the books when you look at the picture. Other pictures show elaborate home libraries, still tall with many tiers and a moveable ladder to get to the top ones. I hereby declare that much as I love books and reading, I do not want any book badly enough to climb one of those shaky ladders to get to it. I also love old things and ways as opposed to modern days with everything machine and computer driven, but I’ll make an exception for libraries, even ancient ones. Surely someone could devise an automated system that would deliver those books to you. It’s one instance where I’d exchange a bit of the picturesque for practicality.

I admit to a lifelong fear of height—acrophobia. I read somewhere that people with a fear of height always want something to hold on to. That wouldn’t do it for me. I wouldn’t climb a ladder to the fifth tier of books, even though I could hold on to the ladder. Jean lives on the seventeenth floor of Trinity Terrace, and when I’m at her apartment I stay clear the other end of the room from the balcony, just in case some magnetic force would pull me out to that open space. Friends Subie and Phil live on the third floor, and I’m much more comfortable there. I’ve often thought I wouldn’t sleep comfortably on the seventeenth floor, but then I remember I have slept on floors that high or more in hotels. That’s another story, but I won’t go into it—a funny story about staying in a Hyatt with babies who could climb. Suffice to say I like my feet—and my bed—firmly planted on the ground.

On that note I’m going to retire to my comfortable bed in my comfortable cottage where I can open the door and let my dog out on good, green earth. A tree man was here the other day, seeing what our trees need (don’t even ask!) but when he came into the cottage to report on what he’d seen, he looked around and said, “I really like your set-up here.” So do I. I thank the Lord every day for my cottage and my comfortable life—and then I feel a bit guilty about all those throughout the world who are living in horrendous conditions. Let us all pray for peace—in Ukraine, in Gaza, at our southern border, in many African nations where there is turmoil. Throughout the world.

A brag—and some thoughts on writing

You know what a bad thing it is when a bridesmaid outshines the bride? Well, I think these two ushers outshone the groom last night (with apologies to Gavin Hudgeons). My Austin grandsons, Sawyer (curly hair) and Ford, were ushers at their uncle’s wedding and, according to reports, did a great job. No, they’re not twins—just real close in age.

Do you ever get a phrase or saying stuck in your mind like an earworm? The one that’s stuck in my mind is so silly I almost hesitate to admit it. “Writing floats my boat.” Of course, there’s a story behind it. I’ve been sort of hibernating while my face heals, and, frankly, I’m getting cabin fever and feeling a bit sorry for myself. And there’s another factor in this mix—I can now see the end of the project I’m working on. Whereas before I knew where it had to go each day, I’ve now gotten to the end and am fitting in odd bits of information where they’ll work best. There’s no way finishing this—even with a photo search—will take until the May deadline. For years my big fear as I finish a project has been, “What will I do next?” And that’s where I am now.

I find myself procrastinating, fiddling the day away without any substantial work—there is still work to be done. But I read or I spend too long on email and Facebook or I cook (my great distraction). And then I’m not happy with myself and don’t feel good. (Didn’t know you were going to get armchair psychanalysis, did you?)

Anyway that’s how I felt the other night when I suddenly sat down and wrote a blog that I think was one of my better ones. The words came fast, and I was pleased with what I produced—and all of a sudden, I felt much better about myself. And that’s when the phrase came to me: Writing floats my boat. I am a much better, happier person when I have a project I can dig into. If I didn't write, I'd wake every morning wondering what I was going to do with the day. 

So I’ll pay attention to business, finish this book and send it off to be edited, and move on to a new project. I have a couple of ideas.

Happy start of a new week, everyone!

My proud peacock

Ah, the memory is the first to go with senility. I can’t remember if I wrote about my peacock Christmas or not before, but in honor of my newest mystery, Murder at Peacock Mansion, my kids gave me a peacock Christmas. Jordan got marvelous black pants with peacock patterns on the legs and waist—they are at the tailor’s now—and Colin and Lisa go a metal yard sculpture of a peacock.

On Christmas morning, I looked down at the odd metal thing with lots of petals or something and wondered what it could be. Next to it sat a three-pronged metal thing with a sharp point sticking straight up. In some alarm, I said to Lisa, “One of the kids could impale themselves on that.” She laughed and called to Colin, “Your mom wants to know what this is. She’s afraid it will hurt her.” Turned out one of the peacock’s legs had broken off in transit and turned into a lethal weapon.

I brought it home and asked Lewis Bundock, the contractor who keeps everything, big and small, running in my household, if he could weld it. He could and brought it back yesterday, so now my proud peacock stands magnificent and colorful. He needs a name, though I haven’t come up with that yet. Eventually he will stand on the patio by my cottage, but I will have to enlist Greg’s help to make him stable and not subject to every wind that blows. Meantime I’m not sure where to put him, and he resides in my dining room. Sophie has shown no interest.

One of the problems with announcing you’re going to remodel, I’ve found, is that everyone expects it to move rapidly. If you’ve ever remodeled anything, you know that doesn’t happen. Tonight at neighbors’ night at the Grill people asked how it was proceeding, and the best I could say was slowly. We’re still waiting on full architect’s plans to submit to the city for a building permit. Meantime I’m worrying about the problem of new roofs for both the house and the cottage—like a niggly naggling something in the back of my brain. Please don’t ask—I’ll announce when work begins. Meantime, Lewis Bundock is proceeding with plans for blocking off the door between my bedroom and the guest room, which will become, respectively, Jordan and Christian’s bedroom and Jacob’s. I’m letting Christian deal with that.

A learning lesson for Jacob tonight: he went to a friend’s house, said they did all their homework, and was back by six. His Tuesday night chore is to empty the recycling bin and take the garbage carts down to the street. I asked at six if he didn’t want to get it done. “In a minute.” Finally he did take the two recycling containers and empty them into the cart. But he announced he would take the carts down when we came home from dinner. And no, he didn’t need a jacket—it wasn’t that cold.

When we came out from dinner, amazing how cold it had gotten. He was shivering and freezing and said he had to warm up before taking the carts down. That meant watch one video. Then he said he was just going to run and get it done—and he did, for which I’m grateful. With my ongoing back problems and new sore knee, I wasn’t up to it. So I thanked him profusely but I couldn’t resist saying I hoped he learned a lesson about doing things the first time he’s asked. He was sort of committal in his answer. I keep hoping.