Today nothing happened

Nothing happened today. I had the dog groomer on my calendar, but it turned out they didn’t have me on theirs. I thought an acquaintance was coming to pick up a book and see the cottage, but that’s tomorrow. So the only person I saw was Jordan who flipped in and out at lunchtime. In the afternoon Jacob woke me so I could be dressed and presentable when the bank lady came to discuss finalizing remodeling costs. And that was it.

I spent the day alone, working at my desk, like a happy but busy beaver. I always start the day with emails and Facebook; then, today, I finished some insurance paperwork and read the book I’m reading for the Sarton competition from Story Circle Network. I really enjoyed the day.

Too often the outside world intrudes on my little hideaway. Tomorrow the home health nurse will come, as will the fan who I thought was coming today. Perhaps Subie and Phil will come for happy hour, because I do believe they’re home from New Mexico tonight.

Two semi-happenings for the day: Christian was fixing pork tenderloin, new potatoes, and salad. They asked if I wanted to join them, but I had seen a new way to scramble eggs and my mouth was set. According to Alton Brown, you mix three eggs—a large helping for me—with 1 tsp. water and 1 tsp. room-temperature mayonnaise (it makes the eggs creamier). I told Jordan about that but she was notably unimpressed. She and Megan like their eggs hard as rocks. Anyway, back to Alton Brown—you heat you cast iron skillet for five minutes on medium. With my induction burner, that was obviously out of the question, but I heated the skillet for five minutes, removed it from the heat, and made sure a pat of butter covered the whole surface. With the pan still off the burner, I poured in the egg mixture, stirred, and let it alone for however long. Nothing happened. The eggs weren’t cooking. I finally put the pan back on the medium burner and cooked the eggs the way I know how.

They were soft—the way I like them—creamy, buttery and delicious. Once again, I followed my cooking instincts instead of the instructions, but I do think the tsp. of mayonnaise is a good idea. Jordan scoffed, but Colin happened to call and said, “I’d eat that.” Of course he’s my kid who will eat eggs scrambled with cottage cheese—a favorite trick for my mom.

The other nice thing was Jacob came in the door about eight, with his pillow and blanket, and announced he’s spending the night. I’ve had some restless nights lately, so just knowing he’s here will be a comfort. I suspect in part he likes to come out here because I forget to tell him his iPad time is over. But I love it that he wants to be out here…and I love him.

Going to a banquet, sort of

I went to a dinner party tonight—Jordan’s first dinner to cook in the house in the six weeks they’ve been there. They finally have things unpacked enough that she can use the kitchen. Christian was in Minneapolis for the Ryder Cup, and Jordan wanted fishy meals while he was away. So I picked three, two of which you know about from last night’s blog. I have to add for all my moaning and complaining about no lemons, I forgot I had lots of limes. Put some on the tuna today, and we both enjoyed it for lunch.

prep for salmon tacos

Tonight’s menu was salmon tacos. Jordan assured me Christian wouldn’t be home in time for supper—I had hesitated because he will eat some fish but particularly dislikes salmon. So we started fixing tacos, when he called to say his plane had landed. Then we fiddled and postponed. Jordan made our salmon tacos—with avocado, cilantro, lime, and feta. For the boys, Christian and Jacob, she made hamburger tacos with lots of avocado. Jacob loved everything but the feta, ended up eating three or four tacos. But our cook couldn’t find any of her spices—I know the feeling.

beef  taco

salmon taco

This was the third time I was in the house since I moved to the cottage. That first night we ate dinner inside; I was briefly in there the morning we flew to Chicago, and it was an empty mess. Jordan had been wanting me to see it—tonight it looks like a house someone lives in, with living room, dining room and bedroom furniture attractively arranged. Their furniture is bulkier than mine—much of it Christian’s before they married—it reflects that masculine sensibility. The rugs are Oriental pattern—but probably not Oriental—and darker in color than mine were. There’s a preponderance of plum in upholstery and accessories—it’s a fashionable color this fall again. What goes round, comes round.

It’s been a good weekend—lazy and slow, and I got lots done. Am in the midst of reading books submitted for the Sarton Award from Story Circle Network. And I’ve caught up with some insurance work. And, oh yes, I prepared my mail-in vote today. So I start the new week with an almost clean slate.

To end on a happy note, I would not want anyone to think Sophie is not completely at ease in her environment. I keep telling her position is all in life, but above you see how she disregards that bit of advice—Back legs straight up in the air, head twisted in an unnatural angle, front paws curled around. Sound asleep. They say when a dog sleeps on its back, with legs spread akimbo, it means the dog is perfectly happy and feels safe. So my lectures on ladylike posture fall on deaf ears, but she’s happy and secure.

Making Do in the Cottage Kitchen

The bar: notice no stove, no dishwasher,

precious little counter space

The cottage doesn’t really have a kitchen—it has what we call a bar area. Zoning restrictions say only one kitchen on a property, and that obviously is in the main house. I can have anything I can plug in, and so far, I’ve been getting along with my super induction burner. But I haven’t cooked much. I’ve lived on cottage cheese, yogurt, sandwiches, an occasional lunch out, and what people have brought me.

I decided this weekend I’d cook some interesting meals. Christian is out of town, and Jordan had plans so my interesting meals turned out to be for me. For lunch, I wanted to make an Italian style open-face tuna sandwich—you make a wonderful salsa of parsley, olive oil, lemon zest, anchovies, etc. Put chunks of tuna on a section of baguette, with hard-oiled egg and greens, and top with salsa.

What it turned out I didn’t have and needed: chopper blade to my mini-Cuisinart, garlic press, lemons (I had a drawerful but I think I sacrificed them to happy hour), In the absence of my preferred tools I could have used Balsamic vinegar and my salad bowl with an old-fashioned hand chopper—didn’t have those either. So as best I could with a paring knife and cutting board, I chopped Italian parsley and anchovies, flaked tuna, and sort of invented the rest of the recipe—sans egg, which I didn’t have either. Turned out I had what was literally a chopped salad on a hunk of baguette. The flavors were all there, some really strong with an occasional bite, and it was okay. Took me an hour to fix, and the kitchen floor was a disaster. The minute Jordan walked in, she went for the hand vac.

Tonight I decided on a basic spaghetti with anchovy and olive oil. I had ordered a set of pots for the burner, and they arrived yesterday—but I couldn’t get them out of the box. So I boiled spaghetti in the skillet. Draining was a problem without a colander, but I got it done. I was cooking for one and the recipe was for four. So I guessed and cooked by instinct—the result was good but a little dry (I forgot to save cooking water)/ Tomorrow I’ll heat it with more olive oil and butter for lunch.

My experiments may not have been raving successes, but they were a step in the right direction. I’m beginning to figure out what I can do in this cooking area, mostly seated, and what utensils I need. It bothers me that the things I always had in the house aren’t right there when I think they should be, but I’m sure this will get better.

I did a number on myself again this morning, but this time it was a positive number, giving myself lots of positive messages about a good day. It worked, and I had a fine, productive day, a long nap, and happy hour with Jordan. Tomorrow will be a good day too.

Our big problem: we can’t find the larger shoe I bought for the brace. Of course the one we can’t find is the right one, that the brace goes into. Jordan will check garbage again. I’d hate to have to buy a new pair when I’d just worn those one day.

Baby steps.

Beating myself up over a shoe

From this......

To this

I did trade the boot for a brace this morning, but it turned out not to be a direct trade-off. I am to wear the brace an hour or so at a time until I am used to it, gradually spending more time in the brace than the boot. Nor is it a simple procedure to fit it—the brace is clear plastic, molded after my foot. But still the technician put my foot in it and marked here and there where she could trim it. In response to her suggestion of a larger shoes, I took two pair—new OrthoFeet in a Mary Jane style and a pair of Croc lined slippers.

The brace goes inside the shoes—a bit of a trick to get it on, but I imagine it will work out as I break the shoe in—literally. But she trimmed until she had the right combination of fit and protection. Then she checked to see that I was even, and then I walked between parallel bars. I felt like a kid who had passed an exam in school—she said I did a perfect heel-toe walk, which should prevent tripping, and my ankle did not offer to collapse to either side.

Alas the Croc did not work as well. I had taken it because it’s wide and boxy, but she pointed out it has no give, whereas the OrthoFeet shoe is stretchy. We tried and tried, but it would accommodate the brace. Meantime, I who have always avoided Crocs was loving the left shoe that I wear with the boot. Crocs were too stiff and hard—they hurt my feet. But with the lining, it’s comfortable and I think a better height so I’m more even. All of this should alleviate the pain in my left hip.

By the time I got to the prosthesis office this morning, I had worked myself into one of my anxiety attacks. I was afraid of walking between the parallel bars, which turned out to be a piece of cake. I was sure I’d never walk unassisted again. I berated myself for being lazy and a coward because I don’t walk more—and major confession, I don’t often do the exercises that the physical therapist recommended. That’s unlike me, because I have faithfully done exercises, walked, done yoga whatever. I convinced myself that I was useless, lazy, lacking ambition.

I realize tonight, of course, what I was doing to myself—sending all those negative messages. On the other hand, regaining my earlier physical strength and balance compares to my thinking on my career: at 78, I am neither as ambitious nor as determined as I once was and probably that’s okay.

It’s been a long, difficult day, with my morning anxiety and in the evening several urgent trips to the bathroom. I really thought at noon I didn’t feel well…and slept for two-and-half hours this afternoon. Jordan’s friends were here when I got up, and one said to me, “Are you all right? You don’t look like yourself.” I explained it away with allergies that made my eye run but then I started the negative messages all over again. Listening to an account of another friend’s bout with West Nile didn’t help either.

I hope it was a better day for you. I’m putting this one to bed and plan to wake in the morning a new person.

Excitement, an old friend, and seven hats

September 29, 2016

Jacob, wearing seven hats--I have no idea why,

but he remind me of something out of Dr. Seuss

I’m excited, anxious, nervous, and full of anticipation tonight. Tomorrow I get a foot-and-ankle brace and theoretically say goodbye to the walking boot. I’ve been in that boot since May, and it’s getting tiresome to put it on in the middle of the night when I need the restroom. It’s also gotten tiresome long ago to think of clothes that would easily fit over it.

I was measured for the brace a couple of weeks ago. It apparently comes up as high as the boot—almost to the knee—and fits down into the shoe. The certified technician who made the cast said I would need a bigger shoe to accommodate the brace, so I ordered a pair of OrthoFeet shoes in a Mary Jane style and, at Megan’s insistence, a pair of pink Crock fuzzy-lined slippers.

I’ve never been a fan of Crocs. Their hard plastic cuts into my feet at all the wrong places. But tonight I am wearing the left one, and the lining makes all the difference. I must wear shoes anytime I wear the brace, so these will be great in the night. I have lots of questions—is this a permanent brace or do I move on? Can I bear weight without it briefly? Will it be easier to walk on it than the boot? Apparently I’ll have to do some walking on the parallel bars tomorrow—no, no, not on the bars but holding on to them.

Today my cottage got a small wall built around a most ugly gas meter right outside the French doors—can’t move the meter so the contractor improvised.  Lewis and Jim also built a step by my front door and installed a hand railing—much better than the ramp that scared me. After our Chicago trip, I do not like inclines, don’t like having my world tilted, though for a while the ramp was necessary. Now I may be moving on to a whole new phase of this recovery business, and I find that exciting. I have to work on strength recovery and gaining self-confidence, and I am loathe to admit it but I am reluctant in both areas.

My good friend Fred Erisman came for lunch today, bringing the egg salad sandwich I had suggested. Almost fifty years ago, Fred hand-carried or pushed me through TCU’s doctoral program in English. We have remained friends, colleagues, and lunch buddies all these years. He still reads and gives me an honest appraisal on almost everything I write.

Today we caught up with each other and our projects, and I arrived at the conclusion that the two of us, both pushing eighty—he a bit closer than I am—are at a point of contemplating our careers, reassessing what we’ve done and what we want t do in the future. We talked of families and travel and food and Chicago. I find such long-term relationships reassuring. So thank you, Fred, for an egg salad sandwich, a house call, and good company.

Getting Out in the World

I wouldn’t want you to think things are going to hell in a handbasket around here, but someone just brought me today’s paper to read—only it turned out to be last Saturday’s paper. Wednesday is when they run recipes, and I’d really rather have that.

Beefing up my social life and also getting out in the world. Monday a colleague from my osteopathic college days—probably the 70s—brought me a sandwich for lunch, and we had a great, happy visit. Yesterday, Melinda, production manager at TCU Press and my dear friend, came and got me and we went to Nonna Tata for lunch. It’s our favorite hangout, and we take small bottles of wine. We’re in z rut—she has chicken limon and I have braseola. And we always have a great, laughter-filled visit. It was a trick to get into her suburban but I had a stepstool and managed it nicely. Still, making sure Sophie stays confined while I get out, getting into the car, etc. is a strenuous exercise. Melinda said she should have skipped her exercise class that morning.

Tonight Betty and I took Jacob to Swiss Pastry—they now serve a German menu on weeknights. Jacob frowned, doesn’t like that restaurant, etc. I had studied hard to find things on the menu he’d like, but he made a face at mac and cheese with bacon and potatoes—and I didn’t even tell him the cheese was gruyere and not cheddar. But lo and behold, they had a kids’ menu with a hamburger. Their hamburgers are Wagu beef and delicious. I fortunately kept my mouth shut about how good it would be, and Jacob loved it.

Betty and I split the Weisswurst platter—sliced pork-and-veal sausage and mushrooms in a wine cream sauce with mashed potatoes. Absolutely delicious. I’m anxious to go back and try some of their schnitzels. Jacob and I let our imaginations get away with our capacity, and each ordered Black Forest Cake—I brought home a full serving, and he brought almost that much. Good desserts linger in the fridge. Betty had coconut cream pie, liked it so well she took a second piece home to her husband.

Meanwhile I am overwhelmed with small chores at my desk. The neighborhood newsletter consumed an unusual amount of time, and everything I touch seems to take more time than it should. I sometimes get 250 emails a day, plus I check Facebook at least once a day. And now I have three books to read for the Sarton competition sponsored by Story Circle Network. Somehow it seems I work all morning and never get ahead.

My current project is to sort some recipes, and I did a bit today, picking out things to fix for Jordan and me since Christian will be out of town this weekend. We usually eat fish when he’s gone, so I have Italian-style tuna sandwiches and avocado/salmon/lime tostados on my list. Fun to be cooking again.

Two days and I trade the boot for a brace. I’m hoping I will make life a lot easier and so am excited. Wish me good balance and self-confidence, please.

Watching the Debate

I didn’t mean to watch the debate tonight, but a friend called and asked if she could come watch it with me, so of course I agreed. Then she called to say that her wallet had been stolen, presumably in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s.  She called the police and then lamented, “They treated me like a little old lady.” I told her that was what we were—didn’t mean to be unsympathetic, but it’s the truth. Linda went back home to Granbury to sort her life and credit cards out. I presume we’ll connect for the next debate. Darn! I was going to make salmon croquettes for her.

By then, though, I had decided it was my civic duty to watch the debate, and I did. Jordan wandered out, said she didn’t want to watch it. Christian and Jacob were both watching programs inside, and as she said, “Everyone’s doing their thing. That’s good.” But I sort of thought she was sad that her thing is laundry, etc.

I guess I’m out of step with the world. Liberal friends and acquaintances are posting about how awful Trump was and brilliant Hillary was. I didn’t find it so. Trump was, as one poster on Liberals without Borders commented, not orange. And he didn’t throw the hissy-fit that many had predicted. He answered with clear statements and precise numbers-need the fact checkers to tell us about those numbers. Yes, he did talk over Hillary but otherwise he was controlled and reasonable. Hillary had all the answers ready, as she always does—she was reasonable, businesslike but not cordial or friendly. I hear so much about differing expectations-because she’s a woman she must appear softer and more friendly. Poppycock: she’s not presenting herself as a woman but as a candidate for a high office. And I thought she did a good job.

Now I’ll wait to check the fact-checkers. I had heard that a different standard would be applied to the two candidates—in essence, if Trump managed to hold his temper he’d win because he’d be asked less difficult questions. I didn’t find that to be true at all. But I will wait for the pundits to tell me who won.

Otherwise, a slow damp Monday. Never did rain but looked like it could. I was content to stay inside, though when I opened the door for Sophie I could feel the coolness and smell a touch of fall in the air. It will, I’m told, be gone by tomorrow.

Rainy Sundays are the best

Amy's pasta supper

Thunder and rain wakened me this morning about 7:30. I lay there and listened to a heavy downpour, remembering that Jordan and Christian were having their furniture, stored in a pod for a month, delivered at 8 a.m. Lingering in bed on a morning like that is sheer pleasure, and it was close to nine before I got myself going. I steered clear of the Burtons, didn’t figure it was a good scene. As it turned out, Christian took Jacob to church to serve as an acolyte and Jordan dealt with the movers.

Meanwhile I spent the morning at my desk, alternately working and staring out the window at the damp, wet world. What started as a stormy day turned into a slow, steady rain, the kind good for our plants but not so much for moving furniture or keeping dogs dry. Tonight the world is beginning to dry out but more rain is predicted tomorrow.

As I get settled in my cottage, I’m beginning to cook. I may become an unpaid advertisement for Nu-Wave induction cooking. I have a burner—two but I only need one-and two frying pans and one pot to cook on it. So far I’ve only used one skillet, but Jordan cooked a lamb chop, and I scrambled some eggs and cooked a slider. Burner heats quickly, you can control temperature easily, and the skillet is a breeze to wash.

Saturday night I hosted my first real happy hour—not just drop by for a drink. Served makings for baguette sandwiches—ham and brie, smoked salmon and herbed cream cheese, plus figs halved, topped with blue cheese, and drizzle with balsamic vinegar. Forgot how much I like figs. So I’m edging back into the world of food, and one of my semi-immediate plans is to sort a folder of recipes.

Having winnowed my absolutely appalling collection of clipped recipes for the move, I’m already beginning to rebuild it. One of my great pleasures is to read Bon Appetit or Southern Living and clip recipes I think I might cook. Sometimes before I even add them to the collection, I sort, throwing away those I know I’ll never cook. But who can resist cauliflower with curry butter?

Tonight no need to cook. Amy Russell, one of my very favorites of Jordan’s friends, brought us supper—a terrific pasta dish with tomatoes, artichoke hearts, spinach, all in a creamy sauce. Delicious. Accompanied by a green salad with goat cheese and dried cranberries. Who could ask for more? Then Amy went home and cooked an entirely different meal for her family. Now that’s friendship above and beyond, and I for one am most grateful.

Defending the Indefensible

I confess. I did it. I allowed myself to e drawn into a Facebook discussion with an avid Trump supporter. I just couldn’t keep quiet when she said Hillary is a criminal and should be behind bars, and Donald Trump, that lily-white perfect being, is a victim of media conspiracy. It seems folks, he doesn’t really have a temper, never made fun of a handicapped person, is not racist, misogynist, etc. and it would be perfectly safe to give him the nuclear codes (one of my big fears).

All that negative stuff about him? It’s all the media’s fault. To me, the media has given him a free ride for way too long—I swore in recent weeks that Chuck Todd of Meet the Press was his campaign manager. Today Trump said media shouldn’t fact check debates because Lester Holt is a Democrat—turns out he’s a registered Republican.

What struck me though about this very determined lady—she kept writing me after I suggested we call the whole thing off—was her focus on a conspiracy against Trump. To me, the idea is patently ridiculous, but since the Kennedy assassination, our country has been obsessed with conspiracy theories. It’s always an “us against them” kind of theory that pits the individual, god-fearing citizen against the government.

Frankly I think the most obvious conspiracy currently is the one the Republicans have been carrying on against Hillary for the last 25 years. It explains why so many people think she’s a common criminal. But that’s not the point here—the point is conspiracy theories and passionate defenses.

I was struck by the passion with which this woman defended Trump. And then I went on to a post from a Bernie supporter, who brought up the defense that “they” (read established Democrats) were never going to let Bernice win. It was a conspiracy. Well, folks, Bernie Sanders hadn’t been a Democrat for long, in terms of service to the party, he hadn’t paid his dues, and suddenly he came out of nowhere to run for president. What he achieved was remarkable, and I hope many of his ideas are incorporated into the party platform. But there was no conspiracy—he just wasn’t part of the Democratic Party’s process. Of course that’s what he built his appeal on, and it almost got him there but not quite.

I’m beginning to think that the more a person knows, even instinctively, that they’re defending a lost cause, the more passionate they become in defending it.

Please, Lord, help me to pass by those passionate defenses and keep my nose in my own business.

Meanwhile, back at the cottage , , , ,

I’ve been so wrapped up in recounting our four glorious days in Chicago that I’ve overlooked posting about the doings at home….and there are doings to report.

In a development really exciting to me, I was measured for an ankle brace. I will get out of the dreaded boot, though I’m not sure the brace will be a lot better. It too will come up almost to my knee, and I must wear a shoe at all times. So that means in the night I will have to put on the brace and the shoe if I want to use the restroom. Also I don’t know how it will fit with pants. But it is a step forward. I will have to get a larger shoe to accommodate the brace.

I admit I have not been good about the exercises the physical therapist gave me, and I’ve been maybe halfway good about walking with the walker instead of scooting around on it. I saw clear evidence this weekend that I’ve lost strength and probably muscle mass, and I must make myself work on that.

Much as I loved the Chicago trip, I was glad to get home to my cottage. It has passed its occupancy inspection and is officially good to go. One thing that means is that I can cook. Last night, with Jordan doing most of the work, we sautéed a loin lamb chop, and I ate applesauce. Tonight I scrambled a couple of eggs, using my New Wave induction burner—piece of cake, and they were good. They cooked quickly but I got them at the soft stage, which is where I like them. Now I’m anxious to cook and will start exploring recipes and ideas. Next week, when Jordan and Christian unpack their belongings, I expect to get the fancy toaster-oven that Megan brought me. When they remodeled their kitchen, that was all they had to cook with. It’s lovely to get the least little bit of feeling for cooking again.

Sophie is apparently glad to have me at home. Greg said when he’d come up here to check on her, she was all droopy and depressed. He’d take her outside and instead of jumping and running as she usually does, she’d plod along. He kept telling her, “It’ll be all right. She’ll come back.” According to him, there’s no question about whose dog she is. I’m not sure I’ve ever had that strong a relationship with a dog before, and I love it.

It’s good to be back home, viewing the world from my cottage, once more involved in my various writing chores, and always savoring the memories of one of the most significant trips I’ve taken. It ranks right up there with ten days in Scotland.