Books and cooks

 

My troublesome quiche.

I cannot figure out where these caps came from. They aren't in the preview.
But I am unable to change them. So sorry, folks. Really, I don't mean to shout.

I’m in search of the next book for my late-night reading. When I do that, I often check reader-friendly sites. One of those is Shelf Awareness, an online newsletter for booksellers. I glance at it daily, often clicking away without noting much of anything, but sometimes I find interesting tidbits. The other day two book titles, both for young audiences, caught my attention. The first was Choosing Brave: How Mamie Till-Mobley and Emmett Till Sparked the Civil Rights Movement, a picture book by Angela Joy and Janelle Washington. Who knew that Till-Mobley became an activist after her son’s death, and it was her advocacy for justice that roused national indignation over the brutal murder of a fourteen-year-old boy. She once told a reporter that young Emmett had a speech difficulty, and she taught him to whistle while he collected himself. It was that whistle that got him killed.

Attack of the Black Rectangles, by A. S. King, is the other title that intrigued me. Sixth-grader Mac opens his copy of Jane Yolen’s The Devil’s Arithmetic only to find words inked out in black rectangles. When he protests, his father cautions him not to get involved, but his mother and grandfather have taught him to call out things that are wrong. Mac gathers some friends, and they go to the principal, but she doesn’t take them seriously either. No spoilers here, but this is a book that’s seems so timely in this day of redacted government documents and a call for governmental transparency. Plus I love the title.

Last night was quiche night in the cottage. I made a Quiche Lorraine, but with little room and no enthusiasm for making my own pie dough, I asked Jordan to buy a pre-made pie shell—and learned a big lesson. The recipe I was following came from Taste of Home, a source I usually find reliable. I gradually realized that the pre-made pie shell and the pie dish Jordan brought me from her kitchen (once my pie dish) were totally different sizes. The shell I had was much smaller. So I piled crumbled bacon in—actually I find it easiest to dice raw, slightly frozen bacon rather than cook it whole and crumble it. Then I added strips of Swiss cheese. I had thought I was getting a block but when it came it was slices, so I sliced the slices.

When I poured in the egg/milk mixture, the inevitable happened. I was careful not to let the liquid go over the rim, but when I lifted the pie shell to place it on a pan (so it wouldn’t run all over my toaster oven), it ran all over the butcher block I use as a work surface. The cottage has just a slight downward tilt toward the north, and the liquid headed north, under the wooden bowl that holds fruit and is so heavy I had to have Jordan hold it up while I wiped the bottom and the space where it had sat. And it dribbled onto my clean pants. And Sophie got a lick of two. What a mess.

But the quiche was a success—browned, beautiful, and delicious.

I relish leftovers. My neighbor, who grew up in a family of seven and said he ate enough leftovers to last a lifetime, won’t touch them. But I was ecstatic to have chicken casserole for lunch yesterday and quiche today. Guess what? Neither was as good as when fresh, particularly the quiche. I think that’s another argument for ether learning to make my own pie dough or hiring neighbor Mary to make it for me. Mary teaches online pie-making classes, so she’s an expert. I’m not.

But here’s a quick cooking hack that worked out well. I’m on my own for supper tonight, so I made tuna salad. I’d read a recipe that I didn’t like as well as the way I always do it, but it had two great ideas for tuna salad sandwiches. The first was to drizzle a bit of olive oil over it. I wasn’t sure that made a difference, but the tuna was really good. The other trick was to put potato chips on top of the tuna before you add the second slice of bread. And that was great. Adds a terrific crunchiness to the sandwich. Try it, you’ll like it.

Be sure to check my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow. I think I’ll talk about the sudden popularity of an old tradition—the charcuterie board. http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com

 

 

  

The joy of being compulsive

 

My first cookbook.
Now I'm part of a larger project.

I’m writing the foreword to a recipe collection from Story Circle Network. It’s going to be a neat book—each recipe is accompanied by a backstory from the writer who submitted it, and most of the stories are fascinating. Plus many recipes seemed to call my name. The collection will be called Kitchen Table Stories II and will be available in November.

I had roughed out a foreword and was waiting for the text of the stories and recipes. Yesterday I received an email with all that, and last night I read through it with a a great deal of enjoyment. But the manuscript came with a request to have the finished essay in by the end of the week. Nothing I like better than a deadline-not. I made notes as I read and by the time I went to bed (midnight) I pretty much knew what I wanted to say.

Here's the compulsive part: I was awake from four to six-thirty in the morning, writing and rewriting that essay in my head. I’d try to focus on something else, but my mind would go right back to kuchen and pierogi and wartime rarebit, radish sandwiches and Hungarian baked cauliflower. Finally just before six-thirty, Sophie woke up. Letting her out and feeding her broke the cycle, and I went back to bed and slept soundly for another two hours.

Those early morning hours are my witching hours. That’s when my brain gets stuck in a cycle, and I rethink and rethink the same problem or idea. Sort of good for writing—I was able to write the foreword easily this morning—but not good for peace of mind or sleep. Someone sent me a link to the National Geographic special on 9/11, and I want to watch it tonight, but does that mean I’ll re-live that day over and over in the early hours of tomorrow?

Mary V. came for supper tonight, and we had a good catch-up visit, talking about everything from food and restaurants to the Queen’s death and politics from national to state. Mary being a political scientist, she always gives me new information and new insight. I’m able to update her on restaurant news, but I don’t think she’s much on cooking, so I don’t offer to share recipes. She’s getting ready to go on a National Geographic trip to the Galapagos, and her travel consultant—that would be Jordan—just happened to be here, so that was fortuitous. Mary had some kind of problem (I tuned out) that Jordan promised to take care of it tomorrow.

I fixed a chicken casserole. It’s always nice when company likes your cooking, so I hope Mary won’t mind if I say that she had three helpings. She really liked it, and so did I though I contented myself with two servings. Served with small green salads as a side on the plate. Mary doesn’t do sweets and always turns down desserts, but I surprised her with fortune cookies tonight. Her fortune was better than mine, which was something to the effect that adversity is good for you. I guess that helps now because I feel I have plenty of adversity. Good to know that it’s working to some good end.

The saturation of all things royal continues on TV, and I have gotten so I only keep one eye on the set. I was glad though to see Harry and William walk out at Balmoral with their wives—not reconciliation but maybe a first step. I am still upset by criticism of the Queen. One woman wrote that the Queen had lived off the spoils of colonialism, even if she hadn’t fostered it. Since Elizabeth was the only royal ever to volunteer for military service, I thought that specious—she repaired military vehicles during WWII. And running the monarchy is not exactly eating bon bons and reading Silver Screen all day, but I shall give up that argument. Most people are genuinely mourning Her Majesty and praising all things good about her. To the critics, I repeat: separate the Queen from the 400-year-history of the Monarchy and see her as an individual.

King Charles is off to a good start, according to an article I read today. He has already been much more public—and touchable (literally)—than his “beloved Mama.” He is expected to travel between now and the state funeral—I didn’t quite understand if he will visit former colonies or what, but I have read several times that several colonies, tied to the empire by loyalty to the Queen, are now considering status as republics. I wonder if that isn’t part of what Charles had in mind when he talked of a slimmed down monarchy. We certainly live in interesting times.

And if I’m going to mention interesting times, I cannot omit the Ukrainian victories on the battlefield. It’s like David and Goliath, except that the Ukrainians have paid an awful price in human lives and destruction of the infrastructure for these victories . God love their spirit and determination.

My ideal outcome: Donald J. Trump in prison for life for treason (okay, no firing squads anymore) and Vladmir Putin tried in the Hague for crimes against humanity.

Not problems we have to solve tonight. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Mixed-up Sunday dinner and thoughts on the Queen

 

A beautiful piece of salmon,
but huge for two people.

Usually Sunday dinner is family dinner around here. Other nights, different people have different activities, and Jordan and I try to plan menus around who will be here which night. For instance, I’m having a dinner guest tomorrow, so they are on their own. Tuesday, Jordan has business meetings until seven, and I have happy hour guests until six, but I’ll whip up a quiche and have it ready for a late supper (I hope). But Sundays all four of us are here, and we cook something special. Often Christian grills or cooks us an Asian dish

Roast salmon dinner

Tonight, though, we got it all mixed up. Christian and Jacob had to go to Coppell to help Poppy move a refrigerator, and I thought it a waste to cook that huge piece of salmon for Jordan and me. I tried to tell Jordan that last night and she simply said, “Cook the salmon.” Today, about noon, she said, “Christian won’t be here for dinner after all.” Duh. Somehow, we miscommunicated. Upshot, Jordan and I had a lovely dinner—slow-roasted salmon with pickled onions and marinated cucumbers with sour cream and dill for a salad.

Dinner over and done with and dishes done, I’m still chewing on the people who find themselves unable to mourn the Queen because of British colonialism. I read an article that helped me organize my thoughts, and the similarities in history occurred to me. Slavery is a huge blot on American history, despite book banning and revisionists who would have us believe slaves were happy and masters were benevolent. Now many states are forbidding teachers, librarians, etc. to talk about it lest it make poor white kids feel guilty.

Somewhat the same is true of British colonialism: it is a blot on the country’s history, and like slavery, colonialism (which involved a lot of slavery) was the product of greed and capitalism. British colonialism began at least 400 years ago; Elizabeth II took the throne in 1953. She could do nothing to change the history, but she did preside over the dissolution of much of the empire. Two facts stand out: a commentator said she is guilty for the centuries of atrocities by her family, which fails to take into account her family did not inherit the throne until 1901 when colonialism was well established and perhaps already fading. And she never declared war on any country—the last monarch to do so was her father who declared war on Nazi Germany. Furthermore, Elizabeth was a figurehead—granted a powerful one, whose opinions mattered, but she was incapable of ordering the conflicts and atrocities that survived into the twentieth century. Her mission seemed to be to ensure peace in her empire

I can understand the bitterness of descendants of people who suffered immeasurably under colonialism, but attributing it to Elizabeth, instead of to history, is misplaced anger. Some countries that kept their ties to England because of the Queen are now talking about republic status—that’s a good thing and perhaps right in line with the slimmed-down monarchy that Charles talks about.

Interesting though that some countries stayed close to Britain because of the Queen. I read an article that suggested had she, as heir to the throne, been a male, her reign would have been totally different. As Queen, Elizabeth never tried to be equal with the old white men who surrounded her. She was a thoroughly feminine woman with a lot of charm and grace, and she used those qualities daily. She was iron-willed enough, with great knowledge of public and international affairs and a quick wit, but it in no way diminishes her to say that she was quite feminine. There’s perhaps a lesson there for the belligerently angry feminists we sometimes see today. As it was, she inspired loyalty.

So I’m back where I started: Criticize America’s history of slavery and Britain’s colonialism, but don’t lay it all at the feet of the late Queen. Celebrate her for what she was—a wonderful woman and diplomat, the inspiration for hundreds of thousands. A unifying figure, not only in Britain but throughout much of the world.

Charles has big shoes to fill, but it appears he will take the monarchy in a different direction in whatever time is given to him. God Save the King!

A taste of Fort Worth

 

No, I haven’t been to the annual event by that name, but I’ve been doing some tasting, both commercial food and at home. The other night, we ordered curbside pick-up from Bonnell’s. For those not from Fort Worth, Bonnell’s is a twenty-some-year-old upscale restaurant that specializes in farm to table food, wild game, and seafood fresh from the Gulf of Mexico. It has long been one of Fort Worth’s best restaurants. During pandemic, owner and executive chef Jon Bonnell established a take-out program for diners who were quarantining. It was so successful, it continues to this day. Because the restaurant is on a frontage road, he calls his customers Frontage Road Warriors, and the lines to pick up sometimes stretch a mile or more. We had wanted to try it for some time but one thing or another stopped us.

Last week, the stars were in alignment, and we ordered a smothered pork dinner. The pork chops were indeed smothered with a mushroom cream gray. The dinner for four included mashed potatoes, succotash (I’m sure you’ll believe me when I say I’m the only one who relished succotash, though I wished it didn’t have tiny bits of bacon in it), a good green salad, bread, and cookies for dessert. It was delicious down to the last bite, so good it had me gnawing the last bit of meat off the bone. We’ll do that again, just not on a night they offer a shrimp dish (I’m allergic). And to boot the price is right—a bargain dinner for four.

Last night I went with friends Carol and Lon to dinner at the Paris Coffee Shop. That coffee shop is a Fort Worth institution, dating back to the 1920s when Vic Paris established the small restaurant on Magnolia Avenue. In my memory (and that’s a good fifty years), it was always run by Mike Smith. It was a breakfast all day kind of place, with chicken-fried steak and homemade pie. I once ordered tuna, which was a huge mistake. A year or so ago, Mike sold it to young restaurateurs who upgraded the interior, pretty much kept the menu, and installed a full bar. At first the new owners served breakfast and lunch, but in the last couple of weeks they opened for dinner.

The new décor is bright, open, airy, and clean with enough retro touches to tie it to the original. Somehow it made me think of the famous Edward Hopper painting. But even early there was a full parking lot and a good crowd. Not being hungry enough for chicken-fried steak I had a huge Caesar salad with more brioche croutons than anyone could possibly eat—it was a really good salad. There was a bit of flurry when Lon ordered a Black Russian, but they got it worked out. The chicken-fried steak was good (Carol gave me a bite), not great, and Lon pronounced his caldo a bit mild but good. A pleasant evening with good conversation.

Meanwhile, on the home front, Christian and I collaborated on air fryer chicken wings and drumettes. I marinated them for eight hours in a garlic/olive oil/lemon sauce, and Christian cooked them in his air fryer. One of my favorites, and a great meal with a big tossed salad.

Tonight I was on my own for dinner, so I toasted a piece of artisan bread, spread it with crème fraiche, loaded on thin slices of smoked salmon, and topped it with homemade pickled red onions. My kind of dinner! Dessert was a mini chocolate éclair from the freezer.

I have been absorbed the last two days by articles about the Queen, the monarchy, colonialism and the stain on the monarchy, and the future under King Charles III. Tonight I read an article from a feminist point of view, with the point that Elizabeth’s reign would have been different—and not so beloved by many—if she had been a man. I haven’t sorted out my thoughts on all that, so I’ll save them for another day. I think the news will reverberate with consequences of Elizabeth’s death for many days to come. I have time to think about it.

Tomorrow is a powerful anniversary for our country: September 11. Much has been written about how that terrible terroristic attack unified us as a country and how easily that unity disappeared until today we are horribly divided. I read a post on Facebook that suggested unity was easier in Britain. When the country becomes divided, all they have to do is trot out the royalty in a golden carriage and all of a sudden, it's, “Hail, Britannia!” Tongue in cheek, no doubt, but there’s also a kernel of truth to be considered. The monarchy is far from completely ornaental, and America could use some similar symbol to draw us together. At this late date, I’m not sure September 11 can take us back to the days of unity.

Mourning the Queen

 

My father woke me in the wee hours of the morning, and we sat together on the edge of my bed listening to a crackly radio transmission from England. To this day, I am not sure if it was the wedding ceremony of Elizabeth and Phillip or, a very few years later, her coronation. I rather think it was the coronation, and I would have been thirteen (don’t do the math—I’m old). The coronation was one of the first public events widely televised, but we were one of the last households to get TV—not until Dad wanted to watch the Nixon/Kennedy debates. Obviously, I didn’t really grasp the significance of the coronation, but I knew it was something that Dad, Canadian-born, of Scottish descent, and a dedicated Anglophile, did not want me to miss. Seventy years later, I wish I had paid more attention.

I hardly know where to begin with my thoughts on the life and death of Queen Elizabeth II. The monarchy now is, to so many, an outdated institution with a dark history that needs to be dissolved. On the other hand, its fans are legion—and I am one. The Queen, as its head, has for most of my lifetime been a symbol of strength, of all things good, of the grace and dignity with which one can meet the obstacles in life. And obstacles she has had—with the government of the nation she rules, the private lives of her children. But she always held her head high, and in times of trouble, she reassured us that it would all end well. She said that at fourteen, and she said it at ninety-six.

We all knew she would die. Her health was visibly failing, though up to the end she had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Still, the actual news shocked me. It seemed to happen so quickly. Yesterday morning we were told she was under “medical supervision,” and within a very few hours she was gone. I admit to tears and to spending much of the rest of the day watching TV as program after program replayed her life. I never tired of it. I was reminded of the funeral of Princess Diana, when Megan and I were awake far into the morning, watching the ceremonies. I told Megan she’d have to come to Fort Worth to watch the Queen’s funeral with me.

President Biden in his tribute said that the Queen reminded him of his own mother. If he can say it, so can I. My mom believed in ladies, in the quality of being ladylike. She was one of the last to wear a hat and white gloves to church. You did not mention offensive subjects in her presence, and you minded your manners. She herself was always gracious, always kind. And she and Elizabeth had that in common. In a world gone amuck with casualness and disdain for formality and manners, Elzabeth remained a beacon, always wearing a hat and carrying a handbag, showing us how life could be lived with grace. And in a world increasingly beset by the abuse of power and by anger and hate, she showed us a quieter, calmer approach to government. The world is much less for her absence.

I am not sure how I feel about King Charles III or his stated plans to slim down the monarchy. I suspect many, both in Britain and throughout the world, are like me—not sure of his judgment. I know he advocates for causes I am passionate about—the environment and animal protection—but the stain of his first marriage remains. And his mother left large shoes to fill. Time will tell. I thought it interesting to see him this morning greeting crowds outside Buckingham Palace, shaking hands and speaking to as many as he could.

Meantime, I will be watching the pomp and circumstance of the next few days and possibly watching “The Crown.” I’ve seen part but not all. This may have come when I need a break from my own concerns, when I need to move beyond my own small world, even if it is to grieve for a great woman.

God bless Queen Elizabeth. May she rest in peace and rise in Glory. And God Save the King!

 

An outrageous day

 

Let’s talk mystery for a minute. Because “the mystery” as a literary genre is so varied, no one definition fits, so over the years sub-genres have developed: the traditional mystery (for which everyone keeps trying without success to find a definitive description), the sci-fi mystery, the thriller, the hard-boiled/noir, the police procedural, the historical, and of course the cozy. Frequently, the lines between blur.

But I think there’s a new kind of cozy—the outrageous cozy. The reader must suspend disbelief with these books—no individual, no set of circumstances could possibly be that outrageous. These books have one thing in common: a snarky, irreverent narrative voice, lots of spoofs about society and pretensions.

Of course I’m think of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. Irene Foxglove, my diva chef, was never intended to be a believable character. You won’t meet her in the grocery store or the beauty salon. Henny keeps rescuing Irene from kidnappers and death threats, but the truth is Irene’s behavior is so impulsive, so demanding, so difficult that any self-respecting criminal would have dispatched her long ago. After one book, Irene rekindles her love affair with the fabulously wealthy French father of her only child and spends her time jetting back and forth across the pond in his private jet. Once again, she’s unbelievable—and it takes Henny’s voice to make the reader accept her outrageous behavior. Escape literature with no heavy moral message but some good food hints and recipes.

A few other series fall into my outrageous category—there’s Lois Winston’s Anastasia Pollock craft series, in which trusting wife Anastasia learns her husband, supposedly at a business meeting, has died at the Vegas roulette table and lost their nest egg, the tuition money for two sons, and the money he owes a loan shark who’s threatening her. He left her with the burden of his mother, an eighty-something, card-carrying, loud-mouthed Communist.

Or there’s Julie Mulhern’s Country Club Mysteries. featuring wealthy and widowed artist Ellison Russell who has probably stumbled over close to fifty bodies. She finds them in swimming pools, the hostas in her front yard, the country club parking lot. These murders are set against the waning of country club social ways in the 1980s, with Ellison dealing with her stereotypical dominating mother, her rebellious teen daughter, the cop she’s fallen in love with, and her almost psychic housekeeper.

And then there’s Finley Donovan Is Killing It by Elle Cosimano. A struggling novelist and always-broke single mom, at the mercy of her smarmy ex, Finlay is overheard talking about the plot of that novel that’s stalled and is mistaken for a hit woman. Lured by an enormous pay-out, she goes along with the charade, thinking she can bow out at any time. Of course the consequences are frightening—and hilarious.

In Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder by Valerie Burns, social media expert Maddy Montgomery, left standing at the altar, is #StartingOver in small-town Michigan after inheriting her great-aunt’s bakery and a 200-pound English Mastiff named Baby. Her plan to sell the bakery and go back to her sophisticated life is spoiled by a restriction in the will requiring her to spend a year in New Bison. Maddy doesn’t bake, and her Louboutins aren’t made for walking giant dogs. But when she is prime suspect in two murders, she has no choice but to stay.

And today I discovered another outrageous cozy: The Ex Who Wouldn’t Die by Sally Berneathy. When Amanda's lying, cheating, scam-artist husband, Charley, saves her life in a near-fatal motorcycle accident, she can almost forgive him for dragging his feet on their divorce. Then she discovers he'd been dead for several hours at the time she thought he rescued her. And not just dead…murdered. She's the primary suspect in Charley's murder and, as if that isn't bad enough, Charley's ghost shows up in her apartment. He was rejected, not allowed to go into the light. He claims to be unable to go more than a few yards away from her. She can't even be certain he isn't peeking when she undresses for bed. She must solve his murder so she can send him back to the light and be rid of him forever.

I don’t think outrageous cozies will ever become a big trend, but they’re fun to read—and I’m having fun writing one. If you’re looking for a way to escape all the stresses of our world, try an outrageous cozy.

Is there a spot on the moon?

 

Crotchety old woman

Last night as Jordan walked by my desk, I said, “I feel like a crotchety old woman.” Not only did she not rush to deny that, I think I heard her mutter, “Yeah.” We had company for happy hour—good, dear longtime friends, the kind who fortunately love you in your worst moments. It may not have been my worst, but it surely was not my best. Everything irritated me, from the a/c which was too cold to the conversation that was too loud to the discussion of house repairs, a subject I am vehement about: I want the service people with whom I have a longstanding relationship, and Christian has finally come around to believing that is best. But when someone suggested our plumber wasn’t doing a good job, I bristled. It’s not the plumber, it’s the pipes, some of which are a hundred years old.

This morning my mood was not much better, but with what little good sense I had left I recognized that the problem was with me. Granted, some influences mostly beyond my control contributed: the atmosphere has been a bit tense around here since the refrigerator in the house quit and then, Saturday morning, a pipe began spewing raw sewage out under the deck. My work on a big project is consuming me but not going well, and I feel that it’s always on my mind. Jordan is consumed with a heavy workload, and I miss the easy camaraderie we used to haveand now enjoy less frequently. I could probably dig up other excuses, but the truth is that the problem is with me. I am in a fun and trying hard to claw myself out of it

It didn’t help that tonight two neighbors came for our regular Tuesday night happy hour, and I lost patience with one of them and spoke when I should have kept quiet. We did part as friends, but I was aware that my funk overtook me.

Lots of good happened today, and it should make me happy. For a brief period this morning everything happened at once: Keith, my favorite plumber, came, with a helper, and fixed the sewage problem, though he warned it is not a permanent fix—old pipes you know. While they were working on the deck, the yard guys arrived to fertilize, and Christian ran back and forth between the two.

When the plumber’s helper was getting ready to leave, he left the gate open. Suddenly I realized Sophie was nowhere around and not answering my frantic calls. I alerted the helper, called Christian, and began to alternate between prayer and chewing my nails. The plumber’s helper started down the street—Soph was in sight—intending to call her to come. Christian said, “That won’t happen. She’s not trained. I have to get the car.” So he got in my VW, drove down the street, opened the door, and she hopped right in. Moments like that, though, when I’m worried that she’ll be hit by a car or snatched by someone who wants to sell a cute dog, I realize how much she is a part of my life. I held my breath until I could lure her back into the house with a treat. And by the by—she is trained. She knows about “Come.” She just chooses not to do it.

The garden is something that should make me happy. Christian is going to buy a few herbs for the elevated herb garden which was decimated by the heat, but I noticed this morning that four or five green onions are poking up, straight and strong. The hyacinth bean vine on the fence is blooming, so I’m now reassured that we may get seeds to plant next year. And this morning I noticed that the Turk’s Cap, almost hidden by a tree, has a few brave blooms. On the downside, the pentas are growing and have a few blooms, but they are nowhere near their glory of previous years. When John, who owns the lawn company saw them, he said they were the worst he’d seen, and he felt sort of like an oncologist delivering bad news. Thanks a lot. And on the real downside, the deluge of nuts on the patio continues. And the mosquitoes are back!

Still the garden’s resurgence is a sign of hope to me, and I’m going to take it to heart and vanquish my funk. And I will take a few practical steps with my work projects, diverting myself to something with more immediate rewards.

Sweet dreams, all. Tomorrow is a newer, better day.

Rain, busy squirrels, and a lot of good food

 

We had lots of thunder again tonight and only a brief gentle rain. Better than nothing, even to dampen things. Dallas is getting deluges, and we are getting gentle showers. I’d love something in between, but I am getting weary of non-productive thunder. So much promise, so little show.

We have another kind of rain however—showers of pecans. The squirrels in the tree above my patio are really busy. The eat half a nut and then throw it, sometimes with pretty good force, on the patio—or the roof or wherever they land. I sat here and listened to strange noises until I figured it out—took me a full day. The cottage is full of noises anyway. Sometimes in the dark of night I think it’s a critter banging into the walls, and occasionally it sounds like there’s one in the bedroom with me or in my closet. I figure Sophie would sound the alert. I’ve gotten kind of used to the noises, though like anyone who has ever lived in an older house, I am ever on the alert for the sound of running water.

We’ve had some domestic tragedies of late—the Burtons refrigerator quit, so now mine is extraordinarily full. Thanks to Mary for reminding me that a full refrigerator is an efficient one. I am less concerned about efficiency than I am being able to find what I want. I keep trying to eat up leftovers and clear out some of the icebox dishes, but I think they are procreating in there in the dark of the night. This morning Christian came out to get eggs to cook for their breakfast, and I accused him of taking my eggs. He patiently showed me which were his and which mine. We started out confining their things to the top two shelves and mine to the bottom, but that didn’t last long, and they are now comingled. I really didn’t care if he ate my eggs, so I’m not sure why I jumped him. A symptom of frustration, I guess.

Saturday, he announced that there was a leak under the deck. Turned out that raw sewage was flowing out of the crawl space under the house. It stopped, they decided it was the older bathroom, and they wouldn’t use it since it was a holiday and our plumber didn’t respond. But then Sunday, sewage flowed again, and no one had used that front bathroom. Christian did say tonight that they had all showered, and I know Jacob for one takes a long shower. My suggestion about few showers and scant if any apparently fell on deaf ears. So I’ve left a message for Keith, the wonderful plumber who has kept our house together for twenty-five years or more.

As usual, it was a weekend of good food. Saturday night was a Baylor game, and the Burtons watched, with company. Christian grilled pork tenderloins and roasted tiny diced potatoes; I contributed asparagus. I’m not fond of pork tenderloins, usually too dry, but these were moist and flavorful, and the potatoes were outstanding. Of course, he couldn’t quite tell me precisely what he did.

Last night being Labor Day I staged a faux picnic. Memorial Day and the Fourth of July don’t bring out the picnic idea in me, but Labor Day does. So I enlisted Jean and Renee. After that I realized my picnic options were limited by my cooking equipment. Couldn’t grill hamburgers, and skillet burgers didn’t seem quite the same; wasn’t willing to go through the process of frying chicken, though I honestly did consider it. In the end, I steamed hot dogs over kraut, bought some potato salad (how unlike me!), and made a spinach casserole with cream cheese and Pecorino (maybe the best thing about the meal). Jean brought a crudities platter and deviled eggs, and Renee brought some faux madeleines that were cake on top and brownie on the bottom. We feasted, and today I had the best lunch leftovers.

And tonight, we ordered in—Asian. We haven’t done that in forever, and I loved it. I grew up in a household where you never ordered in, and you never had what was then Chinese food. I didn’t know about all those little white cartons, but my ex-husband did. His mother talked about going to eat at the Chinks, which offended me because our third child is half Chinese. “Can’t we teach her a new word?” I asked. But tonight I enjoyed all of it, though I had forgotten how rich it can be. We had crab Rangoon and cashew chicken and chicken fried rice and a chicken I couldn’t identify but it was good.

My sons used to have a beloved Boy Scout counselor who, after a big dinner, would chant, “I am full enough!” That’s how I feel tonight.

And so back to regular workdays. Have a good week, everyone.

 

 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity—W. B. Yeats

When my younger son, Jamie was in fourth grade, his class studied Texas history. Jamie was enthralled, particularly by the idea of doing rubbings of cemetery stones. He dragged me to the historic cemeteries in Fort Worth and regaled me with the history of the city and stories of its heroes, while he rubbed furiously. To this day, Jamie has a good grounding in Texas history.

But our state history is controversial. The legislature has mandated guidelines for the way it is to be taught, with their focus on forbidding the teaching of CRT in public schools. You’d think a body of citizens charged with governing our state would be open-minded enough to study CRT and learn that it is not now, has not ever been, and will not be taught at any level below graduate school—and then mostly in law schools. But no! The legislature also wants the martyrs of the Alamo depicted as heroes and does not allow teachers to suggest there is more than one way to view that episode in our history. Read Forget the Alamo, a book which so incensed lite gov. Dan Patrick that he cancelled a program at the Bullock Museum at the last minute. Racism and slavery? Not to be discussed with young minds, lest they feel guilty about being white, a theory that does not consider black and brown children.

Volunteer groups of teachers have been working for at least two years to rewrite the social studies curriculum and had created guidelines that integrated various cultures into the curriculum, including immigrants and LGBTQ citizens. The fourth- and seventh-grade focus on history was replaced with a more chronological teaching. This week, the State Board of Education voted to delay implementation of the new curriculum for two years for “more study.” They objected to the possibility of “woke indoctrination,” which is both as difficult to define as CRT and is the worst grammar I’ve ever heard.

The Texas Freedom Caucus is rejoicing. One conservative said, “The purpose of government is to secure our God-given rights” and stressed that children must be taught American exceptionalism—the idea that we are better than the entire rest of the world and destined to be the leader (apparently ignoring how far we fell in international esteem under trump). Another said, “We need to teach them to love freedom and to love limited government …. to replace those things with things that are going on in our world now with globalism, foreign relations, LGBTQ agenda, Marxism and other foreign ideas ... to swap those would be against the will of Texans and would be terrible.” I’d guess this guy is not a futurist.

I am at a loss for words. The majority, even in Texas, is letting a vocal minority determine our educational system, our personal lives, everything about our culture. I am so weary of people who rant about CRT in the schools and “woke indoctrination”—that use of woke grates every time I hear it. I cannot fathom that education is not valued, that critical thinking is not a way of life, that blind fear of what they don’t understand is a driving force behind these overbearing, loud-mouthed people.

It's one thing to urge people to vote blue—and I am not minimalizing that at all. But I think we all also have to educate ourselves so that we have cogent arguments to meet conservative prejudices. Of course, I know some won’t listen, many will deny, but we can’t just sit back and accept the rantings of those who would take us back beyond the 1950s, to Jim Crow laws and women without a voice and educational discrimination. It simply can’t happen! A good starting place: fight for our schools.

I read a lengthy post on Facebook today that suggested some of these parents—and maybe some of us whose kids have aged out of schools—ought to volunteer instead of criticizing and demanding book bans and refusing posters from other cultures (Yes, hello, Southlake!). We should see what’s really going on—read to the kids, eat lunch with them, listen to them and their questions, learn with them without lecturing at them. It’s a big challenge. But more and more I think it’s the schools where Biden’s battle for the soul of our nation will be fought.

Wonders of my small world

 

Sophie telling me she's hungry. 
That's a language I can understand,
the barking not so much.

I hardly know where to begin, so many odd little wonders have happened in my world today. Early this morning, I was half-heartedly scrolling through news sites online when I came to an article about an app that will let people decipher what their cat is saying. The program is called MeowCat and has both interesting achievements and questionable outcomes. Only halfway interested in cats, I read through to see if there was anything about dogs. Yep! A project called Zoolandia is trying to decipher dogspeak—and the language of other mammals.

The other evening, as Babette and I were talking, with Rosie curled at her feet, Soph began to bark frantically at me. It was obvious she wanted something specific, and I was frustrated because I didn’t know what it was. I had fed her, given her treats, filled her water bowl. Finally Babette said, “That kibble you put aside so she and Rosie wouldn’t quarrel.” That was it: Sophie wanted the second course of her dinner. Once she had that, she curled up next to Rosie and slept. How I wished for an app that would tell me what she was asking for. I’m going to keep tabs on this developing technology. Sophie is very verbal—you can tell from the intonations in her barking—but I can’t often tell what she wants. I’d love this new technology.

Some technology I’m not so happy about: Facebook decided I offended its community standards and would not let me post today. I think by now my isolation has passed, but it was frustrating today. I have no idea what I posted that was offensive—and I don’t think they know either. Last night I got a flurry of message about community standards, but I didn’t pay close attention. My mistake. I think now their algorithms had gone amuck, and I got caught in the middle. Me, Pollyanna? Post something offensive? I don’t think so.

I know the common perception is that writers are recluses who sit at their desks long hours and have no relationships in the real world. A lot of the time I’m inclined to think that about myself, but today I was glad to read about some outreach programs by the writing community. PEN America, the international association of writers, is sponsoring “Words on Fire: Writing, Freedom, and the Future,” an afternoon’s conversation about the issues of freedom of expression in these “dire times.” The program is sponsored by the New York Historical Society. Originally, Salman Rushdie was to speak; now that he is recovering from severe injuries, it has become a tribute to him.

And another story about the writing community: When the two senatorial seats in George were closely contested, a group of mystery writers formed a loose organization called Mystery Loves Georgia and solicited donations for an auction—autographed books, the naming of a character, a free review or critique, and so on. The effort was wildly successful, and now they formed Mystery Loves Democracy with the goal of raising $100,000 to fight voter suppression. I contributed a signed copy of Saving Grace to Mystery Loves Georgia and committed to name a character after a donor. To my surprise, Linda Rutledge, the character, proved to play a much larger role in Irene in Danger than I anticipated. So now I have promised to send another copy of Saving Grace (my thinking is it’s best to start a reader on the first book in a series and hope he or she gets hooked) and have promised to name a character in Irene Takes On Texas after whoever buys that. Since I’m at best a low mid-list author, I price my contributions low—starting at $15. The auction will be held in mid-September.

Tonight Jean took me to a local bistro for supper, a place that we have both liked for a long while. The atmosphere is pleasant, the food good. Ah, not so tonight. Both of us felt our dinners were not up to par, and the restaurant was so noisy, we kept having to repeat ourselves. Once some time ago when we debated eating at the cottage, Jean said something to the effect that the food here is better and the atmosphere much quieter. Tonight I decided she was right. But I was glad to get out, and Jean was good to undertake hauling me and my walker around.

After supper, we drove by the house where she and her husband lived—new owners have changed the exterior a lot (I will say no more) and then she took me for a tour of the TCU campus—the east campus, where there are buildings I never heard of. And dead-end streets and parking barriers so you hardly know where to go. I have only been retired for eleven years, and I only live maybe a mile from campus, but I didn’t realize how out of touch I am. But I was left with this lingering doubt: do building make a university or is it the people—faculty and students and staff. And which comes first: buildings or the academic program. I had been interested earlier today to read the qualifications of new liberal arts faculty—they specialize in gender studies, race, queer studies, indigenous literature. It’s a far cry from the days when I said my specialization was American literature with a special interest in women of the American West. Today, that sounds quaintly old-fashioned—or just plain lame.

I am glad to be retired. I think I’m too old for this new world of wonders.