The gradual disappearance of quarantine

 

Quarantine seems to be slowly disappearing at our house, and it has nothing to do with Governor Abbott’s ill-advised announcement, though I predict, unhappily, that is what will happen in Texas--gradually we'll just move away from any and all social distancing and mask wearing. And it's a damn shame that our governor is so determined to go counter to science and all the best advice out there. I admire those businesses that say they will stick to the CDC protocols, but I wonder how long that will last. IF you're in Fort Worth, you might want to look at a Facebook group titled Fort Worth Save Food and Shopping.

Closer to home, I've noticed that we have fewer family dinners in the cottage and more “leftovers” or “dinner on your own” nights. Several things account for this: Jordan’s allergies have really been bothering her and tonight, for instance, she said she had no interest in the Norwegian hamburgers I had said I’d make (leaves me with a chore for morning, since the hamburger is defrosted and needs to be cooked); Christian seems to have a few more evening events as part of his work than he did in the early days when he scheduled absolutely no social events; some nights, when we’ve cooked for several days, we really do need to eat leftovers and clear the decks.

Tonight was not one of those nights of plentiful leftovers, and I was getting ready to fix myself creamed tuna when Jordan called to say Christian would pick up dinner. He brought sandwiches from our favorite place—Great Outdoors—and guess what? I ate that whole big chocolate chip cookie.

But I miss the company when we don’t have family dinner, miss catching up with what’s going on, talking about current events—yes, we do that a lot, and Abbott’s ears should have been burning this week. After a longish day of working at my computer, I look forward to the companionship, so I’m going to work to see that family dinners don’t go away completely. One tool in my arsenal is recipes. Tonight I found a Tater Tot casserole, and I think I heard Jordan say that Christian was interested in such.

On the flip side, I did get a lot done this week—finished proofing Libbie and wrote a blurb for a book I’d earlier critiqued for the publisher. The book was an interesting study of a loosely organized group of Houston housewives who were artists and sold their work from members gardens in the 1970s. They were part of the Silent Generation (@1924 – 1942) as am I. These women, caught between the traditions of the past and the imminent onslaught of feminism, found their voices through art, which was especially remarkable because in that day women and art were not thought to mix. If a woman painted, it was a hobby to keep her busy and produce craft-y things for her house—nothing to be taken seriously as art. Yet in one remarkable day, these women sold $10 thousand worth of paintings. I found their individual stories particularly fascinating, and I labored a bit over getting the blurb just right.

Today I wrote my monthly column for Lone Star Literary Life, the online newsletter with everything about Texas books. My column is technically about mysteries, but I can sometimes push the boundaries a bit. Today I included a shout-out to Gabrielle and Leon Hale. It’s not every day that a husband and wife publish simultaneously. Leon’s book, See You on Down the Road, chronicles his retirement from his long-running column in the Houston Chronicle, begun in 2014 when he was ninety-three. It’s full of his wry observations on life as he approaches his hundredth birthday this spring. Babette’s A Wall of Bright Dead Feathers is a collection of short stories about ordinary people caught in transformative moments in life. And it has one of the most spectacular covers I’ve seen on a book in recent memory.

One might think at my age and with a solid list of publications, if not bestsellers, to my credit, I would be beyond needing writing classes. But I have signed up for a class on memoir. For several years—a good number really—I’ve danced up close to the idea of memoir and then backed away. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it, despite several folders of notes and excerpts squirreled away on my computer. So I thought this class might help me organize my thoughts, figure out what I want to say, find some way to assess the meaning of my long career. I have been so blessed to work with books—writing them, publishing those by others—and I somehow want to tie it all together. Now I have to read some more memoir, though when I went through the titles on my Kindle, I found there were quite a few. Not surprisingly, many were culinary memoirs, with maybe Ruth Reichl as my favorite author.

One benefit of my long evenings alone is that I get to do a lot more reading. I’m reading and enjoying a culinary mystery (no surprise) titled Hummus and Homicide, by Tina Kashian, set in a Mediterranean restaurant in a tourist town on the Jersey shore. Excuse me, but I’m going back to my book.

Pot roast makes for a good day

Pot roast

Yesterday, for reasons of its own, was not one of my better days, but today is a good day. I woke to sunshine, the temperature has been moderate all day, and my cottage smells wonderful. I put a pot roast in the crockpot early this morning, added potatoes about noon, and carrots about four. Now I can’t wait to eat it. They say you should bake bread (or cookies) if your house is being shown for sale; after today, I’d say you should put a roast on. The gravy in this one is a simple mix of dry onion soup, cream of mushroom soup, and half a cup of red wine. I used to do that for my kids all the time.

Am I crazy? I am just devastated that Gov. Abbott has opened up the state—no mask mandate, business as usual. Yes, I’ve had both shots and feel fairly safe but not invincible. I had been looking forward to dinner in a restaurant with a friend next week. I distinctly remember having dinner with her on March 12, 2020—it was the last time either of us ate in a restaurant. But now I’m not sure I want to eat elbow-to-elbow with unmasked people. The CDC is issuing a stern warning against rushing to open too soon—guess the good governor just didn’t hear that one. I’m not inclined to be a fan of the Texas governor, he who brought us the energy crisis. Now he’s exacerbating the covid crisis.

I know the argument is that we must restore the economy, but I’m skeptical that letting large numbers of people catch the virus is going to do much for the economy. It seems to me a question of weighing human life against the economy, and I know which one I’d choose. Abbott says individual vigilance is still needed but state mandates are not necessary. What fairyland does he live in that he thinks everyone is going to continue to mask and social distance without the mandate? Sure, a lot of us will, but too many won’t. For one thing, trump politicized the whole mask question to the point his followers think it’s a badge of independence to go without a mask. And Lord knows, we have too many of his followers in Texas!

One more comment on that subject: how many people have you heard of with the flu? Think maybe masks work? Sure, between CDC protocols (masks and social distance) and the terrific roll-out of vaccinations (Isn’t it nice to have a president who does what he promises?), covid numbers are dramatically going down. When you’re winning is not the time to quit fighting.

On a brighter note, I found some clothes I’d lost. I asked Jordan to help look, and she was quite insistent that I had approved giving them away. I knew that wasn’t true because it was a favorite pair of leggings and a shirt that I wore with several things. She was standing in the closet, puzzled, when I suggested maybe they were buried in a basket that sat to one side. And there they were, under some other things—shirt, leggings, a pair of pajamas I wear a lot. Please do not ask how they got there. Brightened my day.

And another bit of bad news for the day—the estate of Dr. Seuss has decided to pull six books from the market because of racial images. I’m not sure which six books, so I can’t speak to the images, but it seems a shame to deprive children of the joy of Dr. Seuss.

Don’t get me started on Governor Cuomo. I’m on a tear already tonight!

Tuna salad with emotional baggage

Yellow fin tuna

Who knew that the subject of tuna salad was fraught with so much emotion! Yet a long—and I do mean long—thread on the Facebook New York Times Cooking Community page demonstrates the intensity of feelings. As someone who has eaten tuna all my life, staring with plain with lemon and progressing to salad, I was amazed at the variety of suggestions. And the passion behind some choices. One woman wrote that she knew tuna salad would be an emotional and deeply triggering topic. She did? I had no idea.

The big thing seems to be the binder—and mayonnaise wins over Miracle Whip hands down. People who don’t like Miracle Whip were not iffy about it—they were downright intense. Like never, never, never speak those words. The second big choice was water pack vs. oil pack. For years I’ve sought out the best water pack I could get—I now order it from a cannery in Oregon, as I’ve said. But a woman from Oregon wrote that they know tuna should be packed in oil; otherwise your salad gets watery. I will admit that my friend Betty makes the best tuna ever with oi-packed, hard-boiled egg, sweet pickle (not relish), and onion. No lemon, and that surprises me.

Mayonnaise, onion, lemon, seem to be the usual, with the frequent addition of hard-boiled eggs, pickle (some choose sweet, some choose dill). A few add mustard—I’ve tried a bit of Dijon, and it does add a nice spark.

But some unusual additions: panko (doesn’t it get soggy?), fish sauce (really?), jalopeno (okay, I don’t like peppers much), olives, curry, Old Bay seasoning, raisins, and carrots (shredded we hope). A suggestion I intend to try—a pinch of sugar to lessen any bitterness, not that I find tuna salad bitter, but it might act as sugar does in a tomato sauce. My mom said it rounds it off, and I was never sure what that meant but it seemed to be a good thing.

In the United Kingdom, wrote one woman, they put corn nibletts in tuna salad and serve it in a “potato jacket”—your imagination can probably supply that. A man wrote he marinates a tuna loin overnight in herbs, olives and EVOO, bakes it and then, I suppose, flakes it—or maybe he slices it and isn’t talking about salad at all.

A local restaurant serves a “deconstructed” tuna salad—but to me, it’s regular tuna salad, with slices of cheese and tomato and melon on the plate. The salad itself isn’t deconstructed.

This thread went on for days and weighed on my mind, so I made tuna salad today and decided to be bold and add pickle. But I didn’t have Betty’s sweet pickles, so I put in sweet relish. It was okay, but I prefer my basic which is chopped scallions, salt and pepper, lots of lemon, and mayonnaise to bind. I’m a purist. And I have two sons-in-law who won’t either one touch tuna salad. I worry about what they’re missing.

That was my big preoccupation today, but I remembered what I was going to mention yesterday. Several years ago, my son Jamie registered me for 23andMe—the results were a bit skewed from what I expected, and I was disappointed—not much Scot in this proud Scot. But yesterday unexpectedly I got a summary—I am something like 99.9% from the northern and western part of Europe, mostly United Kingdom, followed by France and Germany (I have always thought I was half Scot, half German). Other things were minimal, and my Neanderthal heritage had shrunk to “trace ancestry” which I suppose is a good thing. Being part Neanderthal is hardly something one wants to put on a resume.

Lazy day—other than doing quite a few housekeeping chores like emptying garabage, hanging up clothes, mopping up the muddy footprints (I created more streaks—mopping is not one of my talents and it’s hard to do seated in a walker). But I devoted some time to an absorbing mystery I’m reading. Imagine my shock when I checked the Amazon reviews and found I’d written one in 2017! And here I am reading it again as though for the first time. I’m not sure if that’s a tribute to the author or not. When I was at TCU Press, a member of our editorial board rejected a mystery because, he said, mysteries are forgotten the minute you finish the last page. I would like to think that’s not true and that, instead, my re-reading is a tribute to the author’s skill at drawing me into a plot. I won’t reveal the title or author so as not to prejudice you.

Here we go into another week, this predicted to be chilly but no cold with slight chances of rain until the end of the week. Hope it’s a good one for everyone.

A day of little things, some not so good

 

A foggy, damp and gray morning kind of set the tone for the day to come. We’re expecting rain, but so far just the dampness—and what it does to the spirits.

TCU lost a valuable employee, many of us lost a good friend, and I lost a blog follower yesterday when Tracy Thompson was found dead in her home. Tracy was for as long as memory serves the liaison between retirees and TCU, and she was unfailingly cheerful, polite, and helpful in a role that surely would strain the best of dispositions. We were friends—not close, but friends. For a while we both belonged to a group that lunched together, and I think Tracy came to one of the memoir-writing classes I taught. I know she followed my blog and commented sometimes, and I was always glad to hear from her. I think the last time I heard she said she was anxious to try my salmon croquette recipe because her late mom had made those, and she missed them. Rest in peace, Tracy. I know your smile is brightening Heaven, even as many of us are left with a hole in our hearts at your sudden and unexpected leavetaking.

Dull, rainy days are good for proofreading, and I managed to get through another seventy-five pages today, so that I have only fifty to go. I have sudden anxiety attacks that I haven’t saved all my work, but every page seems to have a correction, so I guess that’s okay. Good friend Carol said she would help me proof if she weren’t snowed under with her own projects, but I told her, truthfully, it is something I need to do myself. I am making notes for whoever deals with my corrections. And I’m appalled that I didn’t remember how stormy the Custer marriage was—or how stormy I made it in my novel, which was based heavily on primary sources.

Jordan and I had another “girls night in” dinner tonight, as Christian had an office event. We chose scallops for dinner. Christian said last night at dinner he would eat scallops at Saint Emilion,, the fanciest, French-est restaurant in Fort Wowrth, but not anyplace else. I raised my hand, and he hastily said he would eat them if I cooked them. Jordan explained to our dinner guest that Christian has a big appetite and scallops are expensive—we save them for when it is the two of us.

Tonight, we made them in a au gratin sauce, which I kind of think is a poor man’s or lazy man’s version of coquilles St. Jacques—the sauce had butter, crème fraiche, white wine, lemon zest, and pinches of cayenne and salt. All would have been fine, except that the spoon overbalanced in the dish, splashed out, and I had sauce all over me, the butcher block, and the floor—Sophie took care of the latter, with an apologetic look at me.

We ran into cooking problems that I think we’re caused by trying to use a toaster/oven instead of a regular one. I usually don’t have a problem with that, but tonight Jordan, who has a horror of rare/raw meat or seafood, kept saying they weren’t cooked, even though we left them longer than called for. I have to give her credit—when we finally ate them, they were perfect—soft, not rubbery, and yet cooked through. Contrary to the recipe I topped them with some panko and pecorino. A good ladies dinner.

Seems like there were other things on my mind today, but I cannot think of them. I’m off to read a mystery. Have a good weekend, everyone.

 

A long day, a lazy day…and some political naivete

 

Sophie, listening to what I have to say

Yesterday was a long day. Jordan’s allergy were severe, and she took the day off and stayed in bed. I’m spoiled—used to her popping in and out periodically during the day. Gave me great empathy for those who live truly alone and went through long days of quarantine with no human contact. I had just a smidgeon—Jordan came out in the morning to tell me she was taking the day off, Jacob came out in the late afternoon chasing a dog who, with inadequate bathroom manners, is not supposed to be in the cottage, and Christian came out about seven bringing me the dinner he brought from King Tut. Other than that, it was me and Sophie—so glad to have her to talk to.

Last night was long too but not unpleasant. One of life’s many pleasures to me is lying in your bed, all cozy and comfortable and safe, listening to thunder roll overhead and a steady rain come down. I understand some parts of the Metroplex got hail and damage and I am so sorry about that, but here it was just rain—no wind, not much lightning that I knew. Just that thunder. As my mom used to say, “The gods were bowling.” Sophie was not nearly as pleased as I was.

Today all I wanted to do was sleep—maybe it was being awake so much in the night, but I kept trying to sneak a nap and Sophie kept demanding I get up. I got distracted from my morning routine making a “night-before” salad this morning that I should have made last night. Threw my whole schedule off, and I did no proofreading today. As a result, my conscience is suffering a bit. Not badly, though. I think I’m ahead of schedule.

I have had a political epiphany. It now seems I was incredibly naïve to think that once Joe Biden was president and trump gone, things would work themselves out. Not so. I cannot wrap my mind around the lies most Republicans are telling themselves about everything from who was responsible for the January 6 insurrection (no, it clearly was not Antifa and BLM) to the Big Lie that trump won the election in a landslide and it was stolen from him. They apparently can’t do the math that ties a raise in the minimum wage to the exponential rise in the cost of living, and they are opposed to COVID-relief, for reasons I yet cannot understand except that they, who gave the 1% huge tax cuts, claim we can’t afford to help those who work for hourly wages. They blithely ignore the record in some states where a raise in minimum wage has had widespread economic benefit. They also ignore that small businesses, about which they profess so much worry, suffer when people have no pocket money to spend.

If you read Heather Cox Richardon’s daily column, which I recommend you do (Find it on Facebook among other places), you learn that Biden’s approval numbers are astoundingly good. He’s doing the things America wants—vaccinations, legislation to help those who are struggling to feed family and pay rent, restoring environmental protections, the list is endless. Most Republicans, on the other hand, seem to have a death wish for their party and have dug in their heels as the literal opposition party. They have no plan, no platform, except they are opposed to Biden and Democrats.

The big trouble with Republican gaslighting is that the gullible among them believe what old white men like Ron Johnson, Louie Gohmert, Rand Paul and others say. And I’m not even talking about the extremists, though I did hear the other day about someone who claimed Biden has been dead for years and what we see is a clone who will be replaced March 4 when trump is inaugurated again. Oh, and they want to blow up the Capitol Building during the as-yet-unscheduled State of the Union Address.

Whatever will become of our beloved country?

The fun of communal cooking

 

Our fancy--and oh so rich!--pasta dinner

Jordan and I team-cooked supper tonight and had such a good time. I think it’s a particularly blessing of the mother/daughter relationship. Christian announced he had a work event and would at the least be late and perhaps not home for supper at all. While we love him dearly and miss him on these nights, we welcome the occasional evening when we can cook things he doesn’t like. Last night we were going over recipes, and he happened to look at the one we planned for tonight—pasta with artichokes hearts and goat cheese. He looked alarmed, “It has no meat! And it has artichoke hearts!” See why we like occasional “just us” meals?

The recipe was rich—farfelle, a bit of green onion and garlic, a lot of pasta water, cream cheese, goat cheese, mozzarella, French fried onions (I thought that odd—they were stirred into the sauce—but they turned out to be a good addition). Dill, parsley, salt and pepper, red pepper (which we omitted—the black pepper gave it just the right pep). When you combined it all in a casserole dish, you topped it with more onion rings and Parmesan and served it sprinkled with green onion tops. See what I mean about rich? All those cheeses. But so very good. In truth, though, it was a bit complicated, and I'm not sure I would have done it if left alone.

It’s been a pleasant if unremarkable couple of days. I survived the dental appointment yesterday and even came away with praise for taking good care of my teeth. I certainly had worked myself into a snit of worry by the time I got to the office, but as I later explained to Jordan, dentistry when I was a kid was a much different thing, and I had bad teeth—lots of cavities so I suffered a lot with the old, slow, bumbling dental drills. The teeth are thanks, I think, to my dad from whom I inherited that little problem. After the appointment, Jordan and I went to far west Fort Worth to pick up Jacob, and it was a treat for me to be out driving around—see what pandemic has done?

Yesterday evening our Tuesday night happy hour celebrated Mary Dulle’s forthcoming birthday with flowers, snacks, Prosecco, and, of course, cupcakes—strawberry because that’s her favorite. Forgot to take pictures, but it was lovely to sit on the patio in such pleasant weather and such good company. We are blessed with neighbors.

We were all worried about Sophie though—she clearly was not herself. So lethargic, and as I explained to the vet tech this morning via phone she is not by nature a lethargic dog. She didn’t walk to the gate to greet people nor escort them out; when Christian came out, she stayed on the deck instead of jumping wildly off it and racing to beat him to the cottage as she usually does. Finally, when he called, she came hesitantly down the steps, which led him to say, “I’ve never seen her use the steps before.” She also did not get up in her favorite chair to sleep, which made me think she had tweaked a muscle. When the vet called today, that was his diagnosis.

I spent a restless night worrying about her, getting up to check on her. Each time, her tail drooped, and she looked at me with big, pitiful eyes—talk about “Be still my heart.” It was a reminder to me of how much our lives are entwined with our animals—I really, in a bizarre moment, wondered what I would do if she died in her sleep.

Of course, she didn’t—and she seems much better today. Her tail is up over her back most of the time, she forgot she couldn’t jump and got on the couch in anger at the dog behind us, and she generally seems happier. Still slept a lot. I’ll check in with the vet again tomorrow.

And tonight I am in a spanking clean cottage. So glad to have the wonderful Zenaida come and reach all those corners, high up and down low, that I can’t. She makes the bed better than anyone I ever met, and her visits brighten my days. So I’m a happy camper tonight. And a busy one—proofreading 302 pages of my 1995 novel, Libbie (about Elizabeth Bacon Custer). The reprint will be out in June. More about that another time.

We’re in for a “cold front”—in the upper fifties. After last week, that is laughable, but it’s also supposed to bring welcome rain. No patio weather for a while, but that’s okay.  I have work to do—which is a good feeling.

Stay safe, everyone.

 

 

Warm temperatures, sunshine…and happy hour

 

What do you have for supper when Texas weather turns warm?
Why, taco salad, of course.

Last week seems to be fading like a bad dream—or was it? Too many people are still without water, and I heard of people who lost their power tonight. How frustrating—when you think it’s over and you’re finally headed back to livable if not normal, catastrophe strikes again. Still, for many of us, life in Texas is gradually picking up its pace. We wait now to see what will come from lawsuits and investigations—the family of the twelve-year-old boy who froze to death in an unheated trailer has sued ERCOT for $100 million, everyone from the legislature to Abbot and Paxton have instigated investigations into the power failure. It’s far from over, and it’s going to be interesting.

But today was Texas at its best—warm, sunny, inviting. My friend Jean came for happy hour. I’ll tell you how long it’s been since I’ve seen her—her birthday was January 12, and we just tonight gave her the small gift we had for her. We sat on the patio and talked of food and doctors (what else for old ladies?) and haircuts and travel and anything but the power failure, which we only briefly touched on.

The back yard is quite brown today, and frozen plants still droop in a few pots. Jordan has done a great job of cleaning up, but there is more to be done. Most of my kale survived, but the chard which was supposed to provide a tall, deep purple background for the lower kale plants now looks like a limp, overcooked green. The mowing crew came today, and I was going to ask them to clean it out until I read that critters hide in those now-dead plants. The plants become their winter refuge, and the article urged that we let spring cleaning of beds go until much farther into the spring. It is, after all, still only February.

Another sign of returning to life after our forced week of isolation—Jordan swore she wasn’t going to the grocery, but our list grew longer, and she went to the local Albertson’s today. The store where she goes for canned goods, cleaning, supplies, etc. She came home with some treasures—individual, fruit-flavored Greek Gods yogurt which we’ve never seen before (a doctor once recommended Greek Gods as the best brand, even for lactose intolerant people, and I just like the taste and texture better)—but reported such odd shortages: no frozen hash browns, no cherry tomatoes, no eggs. Lots of cleaning supplies, just when you’d think people were having to scrub their houses inside and out. She is going to try a quick run to Central Market tomorrow, early, to see what she can get.

And then, sigh, she’ll be home to take me to the dentist. I’m a bit of a dental phobe, and I’m worried that I couldn’t care for my teeth properly while in the hospital, so I’m apprehensive. After that, though, we hope to treat ourselves to smoked chicken salad sandwiches—Texas Monthly says they are a new invention of Fort Worth BBQ places. I read of one place where they use one-fourth smoked to three-fourths roast chicken so as not to overwhelm. And today I read of a place that sells smoked meatloaf. What won’t they smoke next? Anyway, I will report on the sandwiches.

In the “It’s always something” department: Sophie is limping and lethargic tonight. At one o’clock, she was full of energy, barking her head off and running indignantly from one end of the cottage to the other because the yard guys were here. But when she woke up from her afternoon nap (yes, she naps while I do) she wouldn’t put weight on her left rear leg. After a few steps it got better, but as we sat on the patio, I’d notice her favoring it again, and she was not her lively self, begging for attention. We couldn’t find anything in the paw, and tonight she is walking on it but slowly and tentatively. I’ll see what she’s like in the morning before calling the vet. But she was not too pitiful to respond when I tested her with a piece of cheese tonight. Times when we wish dogs could talk.

Sweet dreams, everyone. There’s good news abroad tonight. Things that cheer me: Merrick Garland’s performance at his first hearing today, President Biden’s courtesy visit to former Senator Bob Dole, the SCOTUS release of trump’s tax returns. Maybe this old world will right itself yet. And the most cheering thing? The return of Texas sunshine.

What is there about Sundays?

 

I often puzzle about why Sundays feel different than the rest of the week. For me, the only change in schedule is that I go to church, virtually these days, so that’s just a small bit out of a day. And yet from the moment I wake up, the day feels different—a slower pace, a kind of mellowness, a thankfulness. Perhaps it is remembering that God rested on the seventh day. Even Sophie feels the difference—she slept late this morning, went out briefly, and then let me linger in bed until almost 8:30.

This week, perhaps it is being grateful for waking up in a warm house with running hot and cold water and plenty of food, though those of us so blessed feel almost guilty when so many are still so miserable. Jordan and Jacob have made pbj sandwiches to support the neighborhood effort for the Presbyterian Night Shelter, and we are looking for other ways to help our less fortunate neighbors. Part of my effort, I hope, will be to cheer our neighborhood with a newsletter chock full of snow pictures. Berkely-ites of all ages turned out to sled, build snowmen, and even ski on the streets last week.

Had myself a little dinner party of one last night and thoroughly enjoyed it. Made the tune casserole that I occasionally long for and my family won’t touch, although I admit this time, I got carried away trying to incorporate leftovers. I guess even a generation removed, I’ll never get over the Depression-mentality my mother instilled in me. But still, my dinner was good, accompanied by a glass of wine and topped off by some Godiva chocolates from a neighbor. I did eat in my pajamas, but they were brand new, spanking clean. All I needed was candlelight.

On my Kindle now, I’m reading This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing, a memoir by Jacqueline Winspear, author noted for her WWII mysteries set in England and featuring Maisie Dobbs. The memoir gives an in-depth picture of rural life in Kent post WWII. Winspear comes from an eccentric family, always on the edge of poverty, and she worked hard from the time she was five or six—sometimes in the fields with her mom, sometimes at a variety of jobs from babysitting to receptionist to house cleaning. Chapters are topical and roughly chronological. She’ll say, “This is what I remember about….” and then she’s off describing the horses she’s loved, the disappearance of the railroad, the day her brother almost died.

As you read, you get the sense that, in spite of its hard-scrabble nature, hers was a childhood surrounded by much love and recollected with affection. Throughout there is a sense of closeness to the land, probably because for much of her “growing,” the family’s livelihood depended heavily on working with crops. But Winspear seems unusually in tune with the seasons and the ebb and flow of life. She also has a remarkable memory for nature’s odd little bits—plants and animals. A truly worthwhile book.

Sundays used to be “family dinner” when I was raising children—woe betide the child who missed dinner unless gainfully employed and earning pay. Perhaps some sense of that family togetherness lingers over the day for me, although my immediate, local family dines together in my cottage almost every night. We often try to have something special for Sunday dinner—like a roast or something Christian does on the grill. Tonight, we had a delicious Mexican-inspired casserole—refried beans, chicken, Rotel, corn, cheese--out of what we have in the cupboard, because this is a week to avoid grocery stores and Jordan has us well stocked.

Maybe what makes Sunday different is that, sensing it is a day apart for the world, we put aside some worry. Lord knows there is plenty to worry about in a world with too much hate and anger and misinformation. I am appalled—and angry myself—at what has happened in Texas and the way our politicians are trying to dance around it, but I’ll spare you the diatribe. I am also discouraged at the blindness of a lot of Texans who make sweeping generalizations—“we all know Democrats ruin everything they touch”—without specific support. When people ask why the public keeps voting in officials who don’t correct our problems but only exacerbate them, I can only think of the importance of education, of teaching people to think critically for themselves and not swallow blind platitudes. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Happy Sunday everyone. Take a much-need break!

Bitter end to a good day

 

The sun came out, the snow started to melt, and my hot water came back on. Great day. But a nagging something in the back of my mind told me it wasn’t over yet. This afternoon Jordan and Christian were out for a long time, came home late, and she put a casserole in the oven—so it was 7:45 before she brought it out here. Christian followed and said in the most solemn voice, “Jordan. I need to see you right now.”

They and three teenage boys gathered around an access hole to the deck and, watching from my window, I was afraid a dog had fallen down the hole. Jacob came to tell me the pipe, repaired two weeks ago, had burst—Christian say it’s the connection came loose, but I think the plumber may think it more serious. Anyway, I told Jacob they’d have to turn the water off at the street. Of course, no tools, and it was so stuck they couldn’t do it. A neighbor came to help. So now, with my hot water newly back on, I have no water!

To complicate things, I’d been trying to call our plumber all week just to ask if waiting out the hot water was the best thing, and I kept getting that annoying message from the phone company that my call could not be completed. I’ve done business with that plumbing company for twenty-five years and hate to switch to one where I am an unknown customer. Tonight, I think I have the cell phone for the plumber who always answers our calls. Left a message but will call again first thing in the morning.

Jordan brought me one pitcher of water, very heavy, which she said was to use to flush the potty. I told her I’d rather use it to wash hands, brush teeth, etc. But it is indeed very heavy.

Yesterday a good friend emailed they had a pipe burst (also an old house) and were collecting snow in the bathtub for flushing. She sent a picture of icebergs floating in their tub. And that’s when I suspected that maybe getting rid of the tub in a remodeling wasn’t without its drawbacks.

In the melee, Sophie got locked out of the house. Talk about an indignant dog. She’s unhappy anyway because we have run out of the treats she usually gets with her dinner. They shipped, but we’ve had no deliveries. Can’t explain that to a dog, so she barks at me. She is now inside, and I have given her a bit of Velveeta as compensation.

I just knew we’d gotten off too light. But still, I am grateful. I think we are among the fortunate few. We’ll be fine.

Another cold day—and a tale for Texas secessionists

 

Our house on the second day of snowmageddon

So many are in so much worse condition than I am that I wouldn’t think of complaining. I have power and water—cold, but not hot. But I have devised a dish-washing method—heating water in the electric kettle and using my mixing bowl as a dishpan. Cold rinses are a shock; so is brushing my teeth and washing my hands; a shampoo is out of the question, and I am beginning to feel as bedraggled as I did after six days in the hospital.

My house is cold in the mornings—50 this morning, which was seven degrees better than yesterday. But the space heaters bring it up to the recommended 68. Of course, I turn them off at night. And I worry about Sophie—she won’t sleep on the bed next to me. Last night I found her curled into a cold little ball on the sofa. Tonight, she was cuddled closer to the space heater than I was comfortable with. I had soup tonight—a thick, rich white bean and sausage soup in my freezer, given by a friend some time ago. I thought it was thawed, but when I went to spoon it out, it obviously was not—a big spoonful flew onto the floor. Sophie loved it, and I loved the hot bowl I had.

I’ve never seen rescue measures in Texas like we are seeing tonight—warming shelters, the convention center and several churches open for overnight guests, the Presbyterian Night Shelter flooded (I hope) with donated pbj sandwiches, Jeep owners ready to rescue stranded people. In a crunch like this, the good in people comes out, and it’s really heartening. In my little neighborhood, people are running errands for each other, offering to shovel snow, loaning a desperately need shop vac. They find all kinds of ways to help.

I am angrily amused at the right-wingers who blame Texas troubles on Biden and his green energy plan. Do they read? Do they think? Biden has been in office three weeks, give or take, and no energy bill has been presented, let alone accepted and acted upon. Yet they are sure that he has targeted Texas for special pain. Texas, the state that has proposed legislation to withdraw from the union. In truth, when Governor Abbott, who eschews Federal aid in Medicare, etc., asked for FEMA relief, Biden immediately granted it. He didn’t care that Texas voted red; he did care that people were suffering and in danger of dying. He is a president for all the people, not just those who voted for him.

Speaking of secession, if Texas did, God forbid, act on that legislation, it wouldn’t be the first time. In 1867, during Reconstruction, Van Zandt County in East Texas seceded and drew up a document similar to the Declaration of Independence. General Phil Sheridan sent troops to quell the rebellion, but while Sheridan’s troops marched in orderly file up the road, the men of Van Zandt County hid in the trees and picked off the soldiers with well-aimed shots. The troops retreated, and the Van Zandt County men went into town to celebrate victory with a huge bonfire and more than one jug of whiskey. After a while, the troops came back, quietly surrounded and arrested them. Many of the rebels spent a long, cold winter in a stockade. When spring rains came, the logs of the stockade could easily be pushed apart in the mud, and one by one the men of Van Zandt disappeared into the night. Some never returned to the county; none were prosecuted.

I’m not sure if this is an object lesson for today’s Texans or not, but I can’t resist a bit of blatant self-promotion. One of my early novels was about that war—Luke and the Van Zandt County War. Recently I wrote about spending time at a guest ranch in East Texas—it was in Van Zandt County. Love these odd bits of history.