Domesticity

Quite a bit of domestic doings today at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan was at work, so I presided over it all.

Sophie had a spa day, which means she begins barking and dancing the minute the Whisker Washers trailer pulls into the driveway. Then she has to wait patiently while Bobo hooks the trailer to the water and gets it ready for her. She’s been scratching badly lately—especially in the early evening, she gets under the coffee table, which is just right for her to rub her back. I give her Benedryl, and it stops it within a few minutes. So I asked Bobo to check for hot spots, and he found one full-blown, two developing. Says the shorter hair and getting more air to the area should clear it up. I hope. Sophie is now zonked out, exhausted from her grooming.

The yard crew appeared. I thought they were supposed to put deconstructed gravel in the driveway groove and along the new fence, plus dig out one more corner for gravel and decorative grass—our solution to those corners where grass just won’t grow. Instead it looked to me like they were shoveling brown old plain dirt on top of the lovely sand-colored gravel. I called the owner, and he said that was gravel—they just had to wash it. Then the foreman knocked and said it was wet gravel and would lighten as it dried. Who to believe? It is turning light now but will likely get deluged tonight. Far as I can tell, the “worker mans” (a granddaughter’s term when she was very young) didn’t do any of the new stuff. They did fix the spots in front where the dirt washes onto the sidewalk and creates a slippery, dangerous condition. We worry about children walking to school.

Every other Tuesday a wonderful woman named Zenaida cleans my cottage—makes the bed, does the laundry, all the things I can’t do. We always look forward to her visit, and today I was especially anxious for her to vacuum because the pecan tree over my patio is shedding those little green worms. They stick in Sophie’s coat, and she brings them in the house. I cannot begin to tell you how many I have laboriously picked up with my grabber, and Jordan has vacuumed. Still they come. Jordan blows them off the patio, and by the time she gets the blower put away, the patio is covered again.

So this morning, when I got word Zenaida would not be here, I had to make my own bed (perish the thought) and wash last night’s supper dishes which I had lazily left in the sink. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.

I’m enjoying food threads on Facebook immensely, especially the NYTimes Cooking Community. But recently someone asked what to do with pork stew meat, and it seemed like a thousand people responded, most with the same suggestions: posole, carnitas, green chili stew. I wanted to shout at them to read the comments before adding one and avoid duplication. Only one person suggested kraut and potatoes, which seemed like a no-brainer to me.

Now on a page called All Our Scottish Memories, there’s a thread about whelks, which people either relish or despise. Somehow you eat them with a pin—haven’t figured that out. Naively I asked if they were the same as escargot, and someone replied no, they were whelks. So I looked up whelks—it’s a generic name for edible snails, so I’m sure it could cover escargot but not whatever people were pulling from the Scottish seas. They didn’t look too appealing to me, and I am rethinking any fondness I ever had for escargot.

I sense an uneasy air of expectation tonight. All is still, but storms are predicted for early morning. We’ve had this prediction often lately, only to come to nothing. I figure it will catch up with us one day soon.