A semi-cooking weekend and some—uh—problems

I didn’t cook as much as usual this past weekend, mostly because I was invited to Saturday supper with a longtime friend and her companion. Another friend and I joined them at his apartment, and while Morris gave Jean the grand tour of his art collection—and it is amazing! Gallery hung, even in the bathrooms!—Kathie and I had an overdue visit. I enjoyed the art from an easy chair in the living area of his small but spectacular apartment. Kathie fixed us one of the gourmet meals I’ve come to expect from her—ending with a made-from-scratch pound cake with real whipped cream (I was so impressed by that!) and berries. Lovely evening, and I think both Kathie and I agreed that we need to get together more often. She and Morris travel a lot, and she keeps a packed schedule when in town. But I told her I have a special recipe with her name on it, so I’m hoping we can fit in another visit soon.

Jordan was in Frisco Saturday night and much of Sunday to visit with her brother, Jamie, and her half-sister, Dylan, who was in from California. But Sunday morning, Christian, Jacob, and I went to church. Jordan was home mid-afternoon, and I fixed us Sunday supper—baked salmon and smashed potatoes. They’ll show up on the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog on Thursday, but I will say in advance they were really good.

And so here we are at Monday. It was supposed to be 80 today, and I guess it was, but it was not bright and sunny, so I still felt a chill. Shh—a neighbor whose name I shall never reveal came for happy hour. She was supposed to be home cooking dinner for her family. We sat on my patio and had a high old time discussing recipes we’ve tried. My kind of conversation. I am amazed at the conversational settings where I have nothing to contribute—Saturday night’s discussion of people in the Pentecostal religion—and I sit like a lump. But tonight, talking about cooking, I could hardly wait to get my two cents in, politely of course.

I finally excused myself to cook supper. Chicken thighs with red onion and artichoke hearts, braised in white wine. Made the cottage smell wonderful and tasted just as good. The recipe called for a cup and a half of wine, but Jordan and I hated to part with that much of the chardonnay that is our house wine. She had a pinot grigio that she said was awful---for one thing, it had bubbles like Prosecco. So I ignored that dictum that says never cook with a wine you won’t drink and used it. Result was good. Artichoke hearts and red onion slices soaked in white wine are wonderful. It’s a New York Times recipe, if you’re a subscriber.

There was a dark side to my weekend—a plumbing problem. I didn’t quite want to put that in the headline to this blog. How do you combine cooking and plumbing problems—that’s an instant yuck! But on Saturday my commode stopped up for no apparent reason. Christian plunged, waited, plunged again. It got better, but clearly there was a problem. I found I could use it with discretion, but by today it was obvious I needed my favorite plumber. The dispatcher said he might could squeeze me in this afternoon in Keith’s schedule. I had no hope, but Keith, bless him, came by on his way home, thinking he could knock it out quickly.

It was not to be—there is something stalled deep in the pipes. At his advice, I called a roto-rooter company, who said they would schedule it between seven and eleven tonight. I was not looking forward to a night-time vigil and the exorbitant after-hours costs. When the commode showed signs of being amenable to careful use, I reschedule for tomorrow.

Pray for me tonight that I don’t have a plumbing emergency. Jordan offered, jokingly, to get down the potty chair I had just after hip surgery. No thanks.

Otherwise, today was a good day—I edited my speech for the book club of the Arlington Women’s Club and wrote a column for Lone Star Literary Life. Lots of projects on my desk for the week ahead, and that makes me happy. Jacob tonight teased his father by saying he had the day off but still went to work. I told Jacob I understand that completely. Work makes me happy and, I hope, keeps me young.