Halloween, family, and all good things

Alter family witches
Jamie, Judy, Christian, Jordan

Years ago, a man I was dating said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother.” It’s a sentiment I embrace, and this mother’s heart was gladdened yesterday when third child, second son Jamie came for the day. Jame lives in Frisco—not that far—but he works (safely from home these days) probably at least twelve hours a day. A lot of his business is done by internet and phone to people in countries in far different time zones, so his hours are irregular.

He came yesterday to bring me a camera for my computer. It sits on top of my remote monitor, so now I don’t have to pull out the laptop, juggle things on my desk, and struggle to go to a Zoom meeting. When he first set it up, I took one look and protested, “But I look so old!” Jamie knew a magic adjustment, something in settings that essentially says, “Make me look better.” It sort of worked. When Jamie repeated this story to others later in the evening, Jordan said, “But, Mom, you’re only fifty-five.” In my dreams.

Jamie could have come, installed the camera, and made it a short visit, but he came to spend the day, bringing his computer and his own remote monitor. We talked and we laughed and I caught up on his family—one of my granddaughters is a senior in college and the other a senior in high school—and we both worked. We ordered sub sandwiches for lunch, which was great even if they did put olives on mine! And just about the time I wanted to nap, Jame announced he and Jacob were going to hit some golf balls. Perfect timing!

Last night, our neighborhood had a pre-Halloween celebration for neighborhood kids, in an effort to avoid spreading contagion. Jordan went to a lot of trouble to provide sealed bags of treats, tables out by the sidewalk, etc. We were all prepared—but as she said, it was like giving a party and no one came. We had very few trick or treaters. We live on the edge of the neighborhood and later heard that streets in the interior had lots of visitors. Meanwhile we sat on the porch with a few friends, enjoying a smoky pinion fire.

Halloween is Christian's holiday
He puts up the tombstones--and you should see inside the house
The trick-or-treat delivery method is Jordan's

Jamie put his work aside to join us on the porch—the almost Hunter’s Moon was smashing! But when I got too chilly, he and I came back to the cottage—more talk for a couple of hours. We talked about family and holidays—we are sad we won’t all seventeen be together for Thanksgiving—and his work, in international sales for a huge toy company, the pros and cons of working from home, and so on. When a child will spend that kind of time talking to you, a mother’s heart can't help but be gladdened.

Tonight of course is the real Halloween. Traditionally neighbors give out well over a thousand treats, our streets are crowded with neighborhood kids and many from other areas. Traffic comes to a standstill, with cars stopped in the middle of the street. The local ambulance company brings two severely handicapped children, with proper medical attendants, to have a taste of Halloween. Houses are lavishly decorated. This year, several households have elected to stay dark, and the handicapped kids are not coming—no one wants to expose them.

We have no idea if anyone will come. Avoiding those crowded sidewalks was part of the impetus for last night’s pre- celebration. But will they come tonight? Will pandemic keep families home? If they come, will they wear protective masks?

Jordan is prepared with plenty of snacks and a plan to serve us hot dogs for dinner. As I write, it’s six o’clock and barely dusk, so it will be another hour before we know how many trick or treaters we’ll have. The whole thing has somewhat split the neighborhood—some families insisting on the traditional date, others willingly embracing the alternative, many saying they would give out candy both nights. Jordan and Christian have elected to celebrate both nights. Having gotten thoroughly chilled last night, I will stay in the cottage tonight, although the temperature is more moderate tonight.

But I plan to stick my nose out to admire that moon. You should too.

And a bonus from my good day—Jamie left his remote monitor here, hidden behind my couch, for the next time he comes. So that means he’ll be back sooner or later.

A ho-hum day

 

Even in quarantine, there’s usually something to distinguish one day from another—a patio visit from a friend, a new recipe, a Zoom meeting. Something to break the monotony of the day. Today there was none. And once again a rainy, chilly, dull morning greeted me.

I piddled, spent too long on Facebook, which I find I do a lot these days because of the political news—no, not the opinion pieces, but the hard news sources that report on there. Of course I am frustrated by the paywalls on the New York Times, the Washingto Post, and our local Star-Telegram. I should subscribe to one national paper that I respect, but I find I don’t like to read newspapers on line. My difficulty in getting print copies is a whole different story, and I won’t go into it now.

But the result today, as in many days recently, is too much time spent browsing the web for news, election updates, etc. It’s self-defeating, because all it does is increase my anxiety—and believe me, I see physical signs of anxiety in me. I explained to Jordan that I probably wouldn’t be much good for the next week, and she promptly said I need a new project. Huh, me? With too many projects on my desk already? She had in mind cooking desserts. I will take that under consideration, but meantime she has an array of meals laid out for me to cook.

I did listen to four chapters of the audio version of Saving Irene, and I’m gradually getting ahead of that project. I am now well over halfway through the book. I did some good email business—a letter of recommendation for a friend, some marketing posts for Saving Irene—have you tried the hamburger Stroganoff recipe? Emails to a couple of old friends, including some in Omaha where trump left his followers in frigid weather with no transportation. Such a caring man!

But overall, I accomplished little. I napped, of course, and when I woke up, I thought since we were not having family dinner—leftovers, and we were each eating on our own—I’d just stay in my jammies. But a voice in the back of my mind said to get dressed—for my own sake, not for the family. I do usually work in jammies until after I nap and then I “freshen” myself ad put on new clothes. So today I did that anyway—Jordan who came out for happy hour was the only beneficiary of my spiffed-up self.

With leftovers for dinner, I didn’t even have cooking to pull me out of my doldrums. But Jordan did—last night she undertook what she thought would be a huge process and found out it wasn’t that big a deal—she made pesto out of the large bunch of basil neighbor Mary had given us. So now we have a bunch of basil in the fridge, and Jordan is planning spaghetti with basil sauce and chicken for election night supper.

I think she is already beyond cooking that night. I am beyond worried about how to make the night pass—a lot of wine and early to bed? In truth, I may be less anxious about election night than the days the immediately follow

I did find an event outside my cottage tonight—a Zoom meeting of our neighborhood association. I haven’t attended meetings because, in truth, I don’t want to get out after supper, especially when they moved the meeting to eight. But now it’s back at seven and I could go from the comfort of my desk, so I was a wiling participant, though all I did was listen. I hope they keepe the Zoom meetings even after we don’t have to quarantine.

This afternoon, late, the sun came out a bit—an encouraging sign. And the temperature is to creep up the next few days until we reach Saturday which is to be pleasant and in the seventies. Maybe the world will be all right.

A radio interview, self-control, and forgetfulness

For me, the highlight of this dull and cold day was a live radio interview. Thanks to Priscilla Leder of San Marcos for hosting me on her show on the San Marcos radio station. The show was an hour, with station breaks every fifteen minutes. Having been on the interviewing end of things a time or two, I was worried about having enough to say. But Priscilla sent me three pages of notes of things she wanted to talk about, and the hour flew by. We chatted a lot about Saving Irene, but also about mysteries in general, Chicago, food, and a few of my other books. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, and I’m grateful to her for hosting me. Bonus: I didn’t have to put on make-up, make sure my hair was okay, put on something besides my T-shirt and tights. Radio is sometimes a nice relief from Zoom. I will be getting a link to the program if anyone wants to listen.

I worried about Sophie getting needy or demanding during the hour, but she was good as gold. Almost the minute I hung up, she was at my elbow with that soft growl-like noise that means, “Feed me. And I want my chew!” She got both. We have both been house-rats today—weather is too nasty for going outside. I have both heaters going (the kind that hang from the ceiling) and still a sweater around my shoulders. So glad Christian is fixing a post of chili tonight.

I’m patting myself on the back. The current sermon series at our church stresses that we are all in this together, listen to the other person instead of reacting with argument, etc. It’s a struggle for me because I feel so strongly about the sins and corruption of the current administration. Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut when people praise trump or Cornyn. Today, a friend posted a note of congratulations to Amy Coney Barrett on her appointment, and I penned a quick retort: Congratulations for what? Hypocrisy? Breaking tradition about distance between the courts and the president? Succumbing to a wannabe authoritarian who sometimes can’t think his way out of a paper bag? Being a political tool? And then I deleted it! The same friend posted a video celebrating our lovely first lady. It took will power but I scrolled right on past without comment.

I saw a post today, in reference to attacks on Joe Biden’s mental acuity, that when a young person is occasionally forgetful, no one pays attention, but when an older person forgets something, it’s seen as the first sign of senility. We all forget things from time to time. I found great comfort in that. Sunday night I placed a grocery order, and Monday I sent Jordan to get it. She came back empty-handed and reported they had no record of my order. When I investigated, I found all the items still in my cart—I had forgotten to finalize the order.

Last night I was making that tourtiere I mentioned and Christian’s green beans, which require bacon and vinegar—like wilted lettuce, if your mom ever did that. It was after five before I remembered that I had defrosted the ground meat but not the bacon or the pie shell—yes, I confess, I used a pre-made shell, and it wasn’t as good as made from scratch. But I just can’t imagine rolling out dough in my tiny kitchen. Besides, at that point, it was my memory I was more worried about than the quality of the food, although the tourtiere was quite good and Christian’s beans are always welcome.

My closing thought on this chilly night: I think Biden will win a fair election, but I am terrified that the Republicans will steal it through voter suppression or the courts they’ve stacked. It is a fight, as Biden and others have said, for the soul of our country. What kind of country are we? What kind do we want to be going forward? Please vote if you haven’t already.

 

That much-needed rain

 

It’s easy to get out of patience on a rain-soaked day with those who say, “But we need the rain” as if they were somehow justifying its presence. To me, soft, gentle rain on a spring day is one thing, but the bone-chilling damp and forties temperature we’re having today is totally another. It’s a harbinger of winter, and I’m already cold.

Because the wonderful Zenaida Martinez is giving my cottage a much-needed, thorough cleaning, I am huddled in the family room of the main house. It’s a room of windows, and I think it’s cold. Jordan says she feels it’s warm back here, but she has Mediterranean blood and I can only claim northern Anglo-Saxon—we pale blondes with blue eyes chill easily. I have a blanket over my knees and a sweater around my shoulders—and I wish I was curled in bed under a comforter.

Jacob is in the next room, with only a louvered door between us, working on a project for school, so I can’t listen to the audio version of Saving Irene. I am going to listen to the entire book before sending off to ACX to be sold in the Kindle store. It’s going to be a big task—I only got three chapters in last night. I intended to follow the text while listening, but I realized immediately that I sort of know the book by heart now and would recognize a gap or mistakes. So far, it’s great, and I’m enjoying it. The narrator shares my Chicago twang, but I think that’s appropriate for the setting of the novel.

We had roast and potatoes and asparagus for dinner last night. I botched the artichoke I was supposed to cook—it was too big for my pan and even though I left it a long time, it was raw. Not sure what I’ll do about it. But tonight, I am to fix tourtiere, a French-Canadian meat pie. We had great fun trying to pronounce that last night—Jacob, who is studying French, nailed it. My mind is toying with a sequel to Saving Irene, and one of the things I’ve been thinking about is French dishes for Irene to insist on. I’m putting tourtiere on the list, and last night, in a dream, a friend reminded me about chateaubriand, that elegant tenderloin roast we don’t hear much about these days. I’m also thinking Irene should be partial to Lobster Newburg or Lobster Thermidor—for authenticity, I’m sure I’d have to try both dishes. Meanwhile, Henny can root for barbecue and beans and potato salad. France meets Texas—which one will be overwhelmed?

I was glued to “Sixty Minutes” last night and thought it was one of the better interview programs I’ve ever seen. Lesley Stahl is tough. And I hate to revert to that traditional form of thinking, but she looks terrific for her age. I was impressed, the wrong way, by trump’s obvious discomfort and ultimate rudeness—actually he was rude to Stahl throughout. And I was impressed, the right way, by Biden who was composed and confident and had real plans to talk about, as opposed to trump who whined that Biden got softball questions and fabricated how much he has done for health care.

I’m also impressed, the wrong way, by Republican misogyny. Nationally, who once wrote speeches for Reagan and hasn’t left that era, criticized Kamala Harris for her joy in campaigning—specifically her little dance in a rainstorm. Harris does always look happy, a cheerful contrast to the gloomy conservatives, but she too can be tough as nails, as she showed interviewing Kavanaugh.

In Texas, John Cornyn, that pale shadow who follows trump and McConnell without a glimmer of personality of his own, is criticizing MJ Hegar as unladylike because she occasionally cusses—Cornyn could drive all of us to that—and because she has tattoos. Oops, wrong thing to criticize—the tattoos cover shrapnel scars from her tours as a combat pilot in Afghanistan. Open mouth, insert food, Cornyn.

Stay warm and safe, my friends.

An ode to Saturdays

    

Kitchen sink soup in the pot

I’ve said this before, but I cannot figure out why Saturdays feel different from the rest of the week when you’re quarantining and practically a recluse. I stay home all the time, so why does Saturday seem a different day? And yet it really does. It’s not a workday, like Monday through Friday, and Sunday is its own day because, at least in this household, we attend online church and we make Sunday dinner a more formal, special meal than weeknights when we might scrape by on leftovers. Nope, Saturday is definitely its own day.

In reverence to that feeling, I did not much today. Spent a lot of time on social media this morning. I will be so glad when the election is over because I expect the posts and controversies and things I absolutely must read will quiet down. That may, however, be a fool’s dream. I also expect confusion, chaos, even civil disobedience, no matter who wins the election. I have gotten to the point that I don’t want to read polls and prognostications and predictions—I simply can’t bear it.

So today I did eventually get back to proofreading my novel, Jessie. I had started over last night, because I didn’t feel I was in the rhythm of the thing when I first went through it. Today I got to page 125, finding new errors along the way but eventually reaching a point where I thought I had done the best I could. I sent it back to the publisher, figuring anything else would amount to chewing it to death. Glad to have it off my desk, and I’m ready to move on next week to the audio version of Saving Irene. I admit I’ve been stalling because I’m a bit intimidated—I’ve never done an audio book before.

Compared to yesterday, today was lovely, bright and sunny, but it was still most chilly. A soup day. I fished six icebox dishes out of the freezer to defrost—not sure what was in them all, though I did recognize the remnants of short ribs and the gravy from them. There was something with a lot of hamburger and spaghetti—Stroganoff? As I assured Christian tonight, none of it was anything he hadn’t already eaten. I dumped it all in my big pot, added a can of tomatoes, a cup of beef broth, some fresh green beans I have to find something to do with, and some frozen corn. Voila! Soup! It smelled so good as it simmered that I was impatient for dinner. Christian ate two helpings, and Jordan ate most of Jacob’s. I’ll eat it again tomorrow for lunch.

Like most of us, I have been horrified by the fires in Colorado—two huge fires only ten miles apart with the threat of them meeting and combining. Estes Park completely under mandatory evacuation. For some dumb reason—maybe because fires always seem remote—I didn’t think to worry about my oldest granddaughter who is in school in Boulder. But today I read that fires in Boulder County were almost under control. Oops! I texted her instantly, but she reports she is safe, although the fires came quite close. And she sent pictures of the smoke. In the one below, it seems to me there is a great contrast between the comfort of the beautiful sunset and the dark cloud of billowing smoke.

Tomorrow we in the DFW Metroplex are due for a sunny, pleasant day with temperatures in the seventies. Christian will cook a roast, and Jordan and I plan an artichoke appetizer because we were gifted with two fresh artichokes. We will have a proper Sunday dinner, the kind my dad would have approved. But then it’s going to turn cold. Patio weather is gone, and that makes me sad.

Rain, cold, and cozy

 

Lovely morning today—thunder woke me, followed quickly by the gentle paw of a very nervous dog. I just buried into the covers and dozed, listening to the thunder and rain. Sophie lay next to me, as though mere proximity to me would protect her. When I got up, she followed right at my heels to bathroom and kitchen. When I opened the door to give her a chance to go out, she hung back and looked at me resentfully. When I settled at my desk, I looked out at a world as dark as though it were evening. Sophie may cower, but I love such a morning. I love being cozy inside and watching a storm.

The rain and thunder eventually went away but the temperature continued a downward slide. It’s in the fifties now and predicted to go to the mid-forties tonight, a huge change from yesterday eighties. I may have to turn on my fireplace. The one regret I have about my cottage is that it doesn’t have a fireplace, but there simply is not room for it. Every square inch of space is put to good use. Jamie met the need by getting me a desktop electric fireplace—it’s a miniature version of those TV screens you see that show a fire. Mine has a remote monitor. Jamie envisioned it on my desk, but that too is crowded—it looks great on a side table by the couch.

It’s definitely soup weather. Tomorrow I’ll make freezer soup again. I’ve collected several small icebox dishes of odds and ends. I think the soup will be more beef than chicken, given the nature of my leftovers. I know there is a good-sized container of beef gravy from my ill-fated experiment with short ribs. Two short ribs also, but I’m not sure I’ll fix them.

It’s been a week of leftovers, broken one night when Christian made Mongolian beef, served with rice, and tiny vegetables—broccoli, carrots, etc. We sometimes get so carried away with recipes we’ve found that we have to call a halt to new cooking and eat what we have. Tonight I’ve fished out the one salmon patty I knew was buried on a freezer shelf and will cook the green beans Jordan brought home. I’m the only one in our little compound who eats fresh green beans—go figure, but they all like canned better!

I’ve had a busy week—produced a 28-page monthly neighborhood newsletter, which effectively takes three days of my time. In between I’ve been proofing the pages of a reprint of my 1990s historical novel about Jessie Benton Frémont. I finished it but realized that somewhere about page 100 I hit my proofreading groove, so now I’m going back to review that first 100 pages. But my Kindle is calling—I have downloaded samples of four or five books I want to try. Ever buy a book you’re sure you’ll love—and realize twenty pages in you didn’t want to read it? Kindle’s sample program lets you try the prose, the style, get to know the characters. Another problem I have in bookstores—I buy a book, get it home, and realize I’ve already read it! If you order a book from Amazon that you’ve already read, they tell you that you already own that book. I sometime feel guilty about my heavy use of Amazon, because I’m a big advocate of the independent bookstore. But I can’t get past the convenience, especially for me as almost a recluse, of Amazon for everything from books to kitchen supplies and bug spray.

It’s a book kind of weekend, and I intend to take full advantage of it. Hope you can curl up with a good book.

A quiet noisy day—and where did you grow up

Today was one of those quiet days when I enjoyed my own company—Sophie and I were alone all day. I was proofreading pages for the reprint of my 1990s novel, Jessie—more about that another day, but I will say proofreading is intensive tiring work.

So as per my habit, I took an afternoon nap. And suddenly the world burst forth in sound. Sophie barked as though she wanted to go out, and I told her it was too early. But then I heard the cause of her agitation—a lawnmower. The yard guys were here for their regular Monday visit. Soph tolerates the mower but the blowers drive her to frantic barking. I have learned to kind of tune it out and hope they will be gone soon. But now  the same crew does the house next door—so instead of doing our yard in one quick job, they do a bit of ours and then a bit of the neighbors. Then they come back to blow the yard, and, when I think they’ve left, they come back to blow the driveway. So the whole event takes between thirty and forty-five minutes, during which Soph is either barking, poised to bark, or protectively taking one of her chews everywhere with her.

But today there was another sound. I heard it dimly and thought it awfully rhythmic. Finally dawned on me a marching band was practicing in the schoolyard across the street. And practicing … and practicing. When the yard guys had finally closed all the gates and left, I let Sophie out, but she came right back and for a long while was reluctant to go out. I think the marching music scared her.

Jordan broke my solitude, as she usually does, by coming out to watch the news and have a glass of wine with me. It was to be a leftovers night, and we decided we wanted a huge salad. She made her trademark blue cheese salad with hearts of palm, cherry tomatoes, and avocado. Wonderful dinner.

But the highlight of the day came when I zoomed in to the Hyde Park (Chicago) Book Club for a discussion by Carlo Rotella, author of The World is Always Coming Together and Apart in a Chicago Neighborhood. No, the neighborhood is not Hyde Park but South Shore, to the south on the lakefront. I have two clear memories of South Shore—the Country Club on the lake, with a magnificent clubhouse and extensive stables. Neighbors took me there for special dinners—“You don’t have to eat fish, it’s not Friday”—and a beloved aunt and uncle who lived in a three-story apartment building on Jeffrey Boulevard (my uncle owned the building and had his medical office in the ground floor). In my young years, South Shore was a sophisticated, upper class neighborhood.

Rotella made many points tonight, among them that South Shore, once considered occupied by Irish and Jews, transitioned to a Black neighborhood in the sixties—upper middle-class Blacks. Today it is symptomatic of the disappearance of the middle class and has evolved into a two-class neighborhood: the haves and the have-nots. When it makes the news, it’s usually because of a shooting. It’s a neighborhood that, because of its lakeshore location, lives in fear of being gentrified again.

More important to me were his ideas about neighborhood. The neighborhood you grew up in, he said, always lives within you. It shapes who you are. He cited his own example of locking front doors and cars, a by-product of growing up in South Shore in the seventies. It could as easily apply to me growing up in Hyde Park in the fifties.

I found all this fascinating because of the increasing turn of my thoughts to Hyde Park. I’m wondering if that’s a function of age. Once when someone in Austin asked me where I was from, meaning where did I live, I said Chicago, and my daughter quickly said, “Mom.” So I corrected it to Fort Worth. But in truth I am always from Chicago—Rotella just made me realize how it has shaped me, from locking doors to loving old houses and eclectic neighborhoods.

I’ve now set two books in Chicago—The Gilded Cage, which is Chicago history (1847 to 1895) and could not be set anywhere else, and Saving Irene, in which I deliberately chose Hyde Park as the setting. And I’m contemplating a third, set in Hyde Park. Rotella is right—he calls it the container, but I call it the home/ neighborhood you grew up in—it never leaves you.

This and that around the cottage

 

Sophie and neighbor Greg Smith
enjoying the last of patio weather

We are enjoying the last of patio weather. My Canadian daughter and her husband came by the other night because, as she said, she knew cooler weather was coming and she didn’t know how they’d be able to see me once it was too cool for the patio. We have made full use of the relative safety of outdoor entertaining (in tiny bunches) during quarantine. Cooler weather will present a problem. The low table on the patio actually is a fire pit with a wooden, removable top—but with a fire pit, you toast one side and freeze the other. Not conducive to prolonged, casual visits. Christian has seen some outdoor heaters with reflective back panels at Costco and says he’ll come home with one soon. Meantime this evening we are expecting two sets of neighbors.

I keep finding appetizer recipes that intrigue me—like one with anchovies parsley, and mayo—but we have not yet gotten back to chip and dip type dishes. When Jordan does that for friends, she provides individual small spoons—a lot of trouble.

We had an uninvited guest the other night, though we are still puzzled by identity. On Saturday morning, Jordan noticed one of the plants sitting on the deck was nearly destroyed, something had taken out a swatch of the pettas that line the front of the deck, and that same something dug a hole in the deconstructed granite that covers a small strip close to the house where nothing will grow. I suspect either a possum or a coon, but we are puzzled. The yard is fenced, gate closed—if there’s a gap large enough for a coon or possum to get in, that gap is large enough for Sophie to get out (Jordan’s dogs are not inclined to wander and, in truth, Soph is less interested these days—she seems to have decided she should stay put where she has a good thing).

But do possums climb fences? Coons? It’s a four-foot hurricane fence. I presume the critter came in close to the point of its destruction, which would be by the gate, but I always check the gate morning and evening. And to reach that inner gate, they’d need access to the driveway—a six-foot fence and an electric driveway gate. I can imagine a raccoon digging and being destructive, but do possums do that too? We have had possums even traveling along the high wires at the back of the property—hmm, guess that answers my question about them climbing. I work so hard to make folks believe possums are our friends, I’d hate to be disappointed.

Cleaning house is not one of my skills, and now that I need the walker, it is beyond me. We had a lovely woman who came every two weeks ever since I’ve been out here, but we’ve stopped that because of COVID. So Saturday she was to come for only the second professional cleaning since last March—bless Jordan who has been doing what’s needed all along. I was going to pack up my computer and work in the main house while she was here, and yes, I was excited. You know that old joke about cleaning the house so the cleaning lady can come? That’s what we did, though I left dishes in the sink because I knew she’d wash them, clothes on the bed because I knew she put them in the laundry, garbage to be carried out. She called in sick with allergies. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am. I so looked forward to that smell of a house that’s just been thoroughly cleaned.

Last weekend with exquisitely poor timing, I made a pot of chili for Sunday supper. It was in the nineties—hardly chili weather. Today on what promises to be the last really hot day, I have made chicken soup. I need to coordinate with the weather forecasters.  I have the patio door open to enjoy the lovely day, and I don’t look forward to keeping it closed. I’ve been coaching Sophie—always in the fall, she forgets she knows how to go in and out if I leave the door open just a crack. She can paw it open to go out, though when she forgets she flings herself against it in frustration, thereby closing it securely.

Guess we all have some adaptation to cooler weather on our horizons. I’d keep it Spring and Fall all day long, with daylight savings time, if I could.

 

The silver lining

When I was young my mom sometimes sang a WWI song to me with the line, “Through every dark cloud there’s a silver lining shining.” I think I found my own silver lining in the pandemic and quarantine. And it’s Zoom.

Yesterday I was on a panel discussing culinary mysteries, part of the annual Bouchercon international mystery convention, named in honor of writer, critic, and editor the late Anthony Boucher. Each year, Bouchercon is in a different city, and a local committee works for two or three years to put together a program. It’s a fan con, designed to attract readers, rather than a writers’ craft workshop. For writers, it’s a prize to be on a panel because it’s a terrific way to say to readers, “Look at me! Read my books!” Rumor has it 800 fans registered this year.

I have only been to Bouchercon once, when it was in Austin, many years ago. A friend and I drove down, and I remember coming home laden down with free books, book bags, lots of bling. I also remember being overwhelmed by the size of the meeting and number of panels available. Back then, I was a fan, directing TCU Press and writing Texas history. I’d never thought of writing a mystery.

By the time I turned my sights to mystery, it was usually too far and too expensive to go to this meeting. I really don’t like to travel alone (I know—reveals the shy girl who lives inside me), especially if there’s flying involved (yes, I’m a white-knuckle flier). And then when walking became difficult for me, I just wrote off the idea of ever going to Bouchercon.

But the pandemic changed everything. This year the Bouchercon committee in San Diego had to switch horses in mid-stream and plan a virtual conference! And voila! I could easily attend from my computer at home. I registered and was fortunate enough to be put on a panel. “Let’s Eat” was moderated by Mary Lee Ashford and panelists included Nancy Parry (aka Nancy Coco), Leslie Karst, Maya Corrigan, Shawn Reilly Simmons, Kaira Rouda, and Bharti Kirschner. Note to mystery readers: look for their books. They offer a wide variety, from Bharti’s set in India to Leslie’s Sally Solari mysteries in Santa Cruz.

Yes, it was intimidating. No, I didn’t disgrace myself, but I didn’t come across as brilliant and scintillating either. As one friend wrote to me, I did just fine. Still, it was fun to hear other authors talk about where they got their ideas, how they incorporate food into mysteries, why culinary mysteries are so popular. And it was great to bring Saving Irene to the attention of readers, most of whom had probably never heard of me and my books.

I spent much of yesterday and today watching panels. I”ve enjoyed discussions about creating fictional small towns, one on “furry friends” in mysteries, one on writing humorous mysteries, and another on marketing. Who knows? I may tune in for the awards ceremony tonight where the coveted Anthony Awards are announced in several categories.

Even if I only went to Bouchercon once, I have been to many writing- and book-related workshops and events over the course of a long career in publishing. For years I was a regular at Western Writers of America, Texas State Historical Association, Texas Institute of Letters, Texas Book Festival. I know that the big attraction at such gatherings is the “schmoozing,” the friends encountered and deals made in the aisles of an exhibit or over a drink in the bar. And of course that’s what’s missing from Zoom conventions. Technology will never replace that, and many will be grateful when we can resume in-person meetings.

Meanwhile, though, technology is offering wonderful opportunities. The complexity that went into planning Bouchercon amazes me—pre-recorded interviews with guests of honor, business meetings, live panels, all with appropriate graphics. A sure-fire way for registered attendees to tune in without difficulty—once my “magic link” didn’t work, but I got a quick message that I needed a new magic link and one appeared promptly in my inbox. I’ve written before about how impressed I am with the technology my church has put in place for remote services—Bouchercon took that technology to an entirely different level. I see a whole new career field for young people—or maybe it’s been there a while and I’m just learning about it. Either way, I’m blown away!

Of laundry and motherhood

Happy mom with her four children

I am growing weary of hearing about Amy Coney Barrett’s seven children. Some days I really wonder if she is being considered for Mother of the Year instead of a seat on the highest court of the land. In fact, I wonder if she’s such a dedicated mother how she will have time for the judiciary

Today I heard that a senator even asked her who does the laundry at her house. Are we kidding? And do we care? Truth we all know is that she has hired help to do the laundry, in spite of her proper reply that she encourages the children to each take responsibility. Can you imagine seven children fighting over whose turn it is to have the washing machine?

When my four (see I can understand her a bit—she just outdid me!) were young, they were on a kid’s TV program called “Hobab” which, so they told me, meant helper. The moderator asked each in turn what they did to help their mommy at home, and my little angels reported that they made their beds and picked up their clothes and did any number of other household chores.

Until the moderator came to Jordan, the youngest and then maybe four or five. She looked at her siblings with amazement and said, “The maid does all those things.” Then asked about the role of policemen, she brilliantly said, “Policemen are your friends. And if you don’t have a Cadillac, they will help you get one.” We have not let her forget those answers to this day, though she has had some hard lessons on who does the laundry and makes the beds and washes the dishes. And she now knows that policemen won’t get you a Lexus (today’s version of the Cadillac).

Last night a friend was telling about a woman who complained that she could barely raise one child, while my friend and neighbor made raising four look so easy. As the mother of four, I had the quick answer to that one: “Tell her that raising four is always easier—they entertain each other.” I didn’t add that with four you don’t have the time or energy to helicopter over one.

I have never forgotten the time a nursery school mother called me to ask if my oldest daughter was free a week from Thursday. I’m sure I gulped. Who in the heck knew? I wasn’t sure what the child was doing in the next ten minutes, and I surely did not keep a social calendar for her. When that same child was ready for pre-school—oh so ready!—she wasn’t eligible for the TCU pre-school where her brother went because of the way her birthday fell. So I visited countless pre-schools. What I found was that many of them specialized in pandemonium. I ruled those out right away—she had that at home, and I sure didn’t need to pay tuition for her to get that at school.

My four kids, the product of a rowdy, happy, childhood, have been known to say to me that they couldn’t handle more than two children. I look at them in amazement, but then each married people who were from two-children families. Is this some kind of conspiracy against big families? Those who married into our family are generally, I think and hope, delighted with our frequent (until pandemic and quarantine) family get-togethers. But occasionally I see one or the other off in a corner with a look on his or her face that clearly says, “How did I get into this situation?”

The other line from my kids which used to crack me up when the grandchildren were little was, “Mom, you just don’t understand how hard it is.” Oh, really? That’s when my thought that four is easier than one or two came roaring back.

Politics aside, I admire Barrett if she is truly that dedicated a mother. Two of her children are multi-racial and adopted (do I have that number right?) and the media seems to invoke sainthood for that. My four children are all adopted, a fact long since put in the past and never talked about because we are a family, a tight, close-knit loving family. And one child is multi-racial or whatever, although as his wife once said to me, “He doesn’t really believe that.”

I am the loving mom of four loving children, and I believe anyone can fill that role. Nope, Judge Barrett, I don’t give you any special chops for having seven children. And, seriously, I don’t think you’re the Mother of the Year.

The Writer’s Ego

 

Any honest writer will tell you that feedback matters. We crave praise for our work, kind words from readers. We want to know not only that you’ve heard of our books but that you’ve read and enjoyed them. I consider myself a slightly shy and retiring person, but I freely admit to that ego Getting feedback often requires that we put shyness aside and boldly ask readers to write a review on Amazon or Goodreads, and I do that, along with other things to stroke my ego

Some of the best compliments I’ve gotten about my mysteries include the reader who swore she saw Kelly O’Connell, the star of her own mystery series, going into a very real restaurant that figures in the Kelly O’Connell books—my fictional character had become that real to her. Or there was the reader who praised my characters as being just like people you’d meet in the grocery store. Both those remarks made me glow for days.

But it’s the unexpected bit of recognition that truly brings delight. Recently I heard from an old friend, someone I worked with at TCU years ago (no, for both our sakes, I won’t say how many years). She and her daughter, on a daytrip to Chicago, visited the American Writers’ Museum on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. It’s a place I wanted to visit on my last trip to Chicago, but then, in 2016, it had not yet formally opened. The museum idea was first considered in 2009, and years of planning, developing support, and fund-raising preceded its 2017 formal opening, as did some trial online exhibits.

Carla Good and her daughter tried an interactive display—the museum required social distancing and masks and gave gloves and a stylus for the interactive displays. The one they tried encouraged visitors to search for their favorite authors and then create a bookmark. It should be noted that Carla is an avid reader and her daughter, Colleen, is reference librarian in a small Indiana town. Carla searched for several authors with no result—until she keyed in Judy Alter. She sent photos, which I’m attaching, along with a note saying she just wanted me to know that I’m remembered in my hometown.

To me, the recognition is more than that. The museum does not celebrate primarily Chicago authors. It celebrates all American authors, presumably living or dead. I have no idea of the number of authors this country has produced, but I bet it’s astounding. To think that I am included in that number and others are not gives me pause—and a needed bit of humility. So I’m grateful to the American Writers Museum for including me and to Carla Good for telling me about. The museum is a definite stop on my next trip to Chicago. Since I seem to be writing fiction set there, a trip is not out of the question.

But for the sake of my ego, should I write and offer them cover art for those they apparently don't have? Surely they too can snatch pictures from Amazon, but who knows. Maybe I'll bring that up on my visit there.

An anecdotal comment on the Alter theme: when my ex and I lived in rural Missouri, he labeled our mailbox with “Alter’s Ego.” One of his professors from medical school, supposedly an educated man, said, “I get the Alter part, but what is the e-g-o?” Today, I use Alter’s Ego as the name of my imprint for my independently published books. So here’s a nod of thanks to that man I married all those years ago.

And here’s another stroke for my ego: I will be on a panel Friday for Bouchercon, the annual and large international mystery con which is going virtual for the first time, due to the pandemic. One of the other panelists sent a graphic about it, and I’m pleased to share it here. (Okay, I admit it's an older picture and belies my age!)

 

Daughters

 

Daughters

Sisters

Remember that old rhyme, “A son is a son until he takes a wife/A daughter is a daughter all of her life.” Not to diss on my sons because I am still close to both of them, but the daughter part is spot on.

My daughters are four-and-a-half years apart in age. For much of their young life, they shared a bedroom—the age gap was just enough to make that difficult, but there was no other choice. In the mid-1980s we moved to a long, low ranch-style house and converted the two-car garage into a bedroom the boys shared (that was a disaster of sorts, but that’s another story). For the first time, the girls had their own bedrooms, adjacent but separate. By then they were something like ten and fifteen, with wildly different habits and interests.

Megan was in that teenage phase where she’d slam into her room and avoid all of us. Her room was a mess, but a wise person told me to pick my battles and, for the most part, I chose to ignore the chaos of dirty clothes and an unmade bed. Jordan, on the other hand, was still in the “Yes, Mommy” phase, which I enjoyed. When Megan would throw a teen tantrum, I’d look at Jordan and say, “You won’t ever do that, will you.” Her answer was always, “No, Mommy.” In later years she did it in spades in her own way, but that too is another story.

For some reason, my good intentions as a mother overcame my common sense, and I allowed Jordan and her friends to spray paint whatever they wanted on the walls of her bedroom—I was shocked by some of the language. Megan thought the whole thing disgusting. Jordan tells me she once walked through an apartment complex on her way home from school, only to see Megan sunning in Jordan’s pink bikini. To this day, she says, “She stole my bikini!” Megan had a series of boyfriends; Jordan was just beginning to think boys might be interesting. Megan dieted; Jordan did not. I could go on.

To say that they were not close is an understatement. But somewhere along the way, they made up—and then, gradually, they became best friends. This past weekend, as I’ve said, Jordan went to Austin to celebrate Megan’s fiftieth with M’s girlfriends. She reports a wonderful time, and she sent a picture. Not the usual numerous pictures she usually sends, but just one.  Makes me wonder.

At a John Mayer concert
They are both dippy about him and travel wherever
to hear him sing. Beats me!

They call each other, “Sister.” When anything of note happens around here, Jordan quickly says, “Let’s call Sister.” Be it good news or bad. And sometimes I find out they’ve been talking behind my back. They’re still different in many ways—Megan, a lawyer, and Jordan, a luxury travel consultant. Megan likes to cook; Jordan pretty much lets Christian or me cook whenever she can. Megan is an avid football fan, especially if TCU is playing; Jordan doesn’t much care. But both are essentially cheerful souls, gregarious, with a positive outlook on life. Both like to lunch and shop and sit by the pool soaking up the sun. Both are the mothers of sons, which gives them a lot in common. (If karma really worked, they would have daughters to repay them in kind—I long ago decided boys are easier because you generally don’t know what trouble they’re into; girls are in your face about it.)

My girls truly love each other. (Well, all my kids love each other, and family reunions are high on their lists, so pandemic is especially hard on us). I am so blessed that the girls are such good friends and that they often include me in their adventures—and long lunches. I’m proud of them and just wanted to brag a bit on them.

Fall is in the air

My gorgeous daughters
in a very blue light

It may be 95 as I write, at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, but this morning as I waited for the teakettle to sing to me, I stared out the window, watching several leaves drift slowly out of the trees. I think it is supposed to turn much cooler tomorrow. With my usual bad sense of timing, I made a pot of chili for supper. I offered to change the menu, suggested meatloaf, but Christian opted for the chili. It’s Cincinnati chili, sometimes known as Skyline, and is a real departure for me. Curious? You can read about it in “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” this coming Thursday.

It’s been a quiet weekend. Jordan has gone to Austin for a belated celebration of Megan’s 50^th with some of M’s girlfriends. She plans to stay over tonight and return in the morning. Early Saturday morning, we had joint mammogram appointments—sort of like mother-and-daughter dresses but not quite. At her insistence, we went to the clinic she has used for years. I had never been there. Made a mental note to dig out my insurance card—and that was the last time I thought about it until I walked in the clinic door. They would not take my word that I would call in the information. I had to reschedule, which bummed me out because I’d gotten up earlier than usual to be there—and the new appointment is even earlier on a Saturday.

I don’t get out much, as everyone knows, so I was truly impressed at the social distancing respect I saw. When any woman walked through the clinic doors, she stood back, waiting until the patient at the desk had moved away and the receptionist motioned. I did not see one person without a mask. If everyone would follow these two guidelines, we’d squash this damn virus. Makes me so angry at the whole darn Republican party, though I know there are a few mask wearers among them. Still, trump is the worst, and why is Lindsey Graham refusing to be tested?

Quarantine hit me in another way today. For more years than I care to count, I have belonged to a monthly breakfast group called the “Book Ladies” (we’d have welcomed men, but none seemed inclined to join us). We have not met since March, and today’s reminder said that the café where we normally meet is open for inside service. But like a chorus, all of us said we are not ready to eat in a restaurant. Online we don’t get the good exchange of book news that we always shared.

I miss restaurant meals. Food never tastes as good when it travels from the restaurant to home, and we have pretty much decided we like what we fix at home better. Christian, Jacob, and I had take-out last night, courtesy Jean, but that was mostly so we could eat on the patio and share a meal with Jean. It’s not restaurant food I miss—it’s the sharing of meals, the fellowship that implies. How to put that feeling into words is much on my mind because I will be on a Zoom panel this week about culinary mysteries at Bouchercon, the annual huge fan con which has had to go virtual this year. I’m struggling to say succinctly why I am turning more and more to food writing—and I know it somehow has to do with caring and sharing. I don’t think I’ll get all Biblical and talk about loaves and fishes, but there is a spiritual element to it.

And, for me, that’s one good thing about quarantine. We eat together as a family most night—the Burtons come to the cottage. Either I have made supper, or they bring it. I was pretty good at planning meals for one—and there are some things they won’t eat that I would like to fix for me. But that’s all outweighed by the sense of family we get in sharing meals. My mom always told me all things work to some good end, and perhaps that is the good she would see in quarantine.

Sweet dreams, all!

Lots of cooking, a Zoom reminder, and the wine bar of my dreams

Lamb Ragu

We had a domestic invasion of sorts this past week. Some critter died either under the kitchen in the main house or in the wall. The result was an insufferable odor that lingered for days. And made Christian reluctant to cook when he came home in the evening. So I’ve fixed dinner several nights, fixing one old favorite and trying out three new recipes.

One night we had chicken pot pie, mostly because I remembered Jacob liked it so well once before that he used a strawberry to wipe up the sauce. When we told him that this time, his response was predictable: “That’s gross.” Another night, chicken piccata. Jacob loves his dad’s version, and I was hoping he would like mine as well. Actually I ignored the recipe I’ve used for years and tried one I found online. Because I can’t fit four chicken tenderloins into my skillet at once and because I was afraid the amount of meat was a bit skimpy, I cut it into chunks and browned it in two separate batches, then combined it to reheat in the sauce. Jacob liked it well enough to claim the small bit leftover.

One night we had a quick and easy lamb ragu—that’s what the recipe said, but when I cook these days, mostly seated in my walker, nothing is quick. And things get spilled a lot. But the recipe was fairly straightforward, so the easy part was true. And it came out with a velvety texture that I really liked.

My tour de force was a deviant version of skillet spanakopita, and if you read last night’s blog, you know about it. If not, you can check it out at https://gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com/. I don’t want to repeat myself. I posted the picture of it on the Facebook page for the New York Times Cooking Community and so far I got 170 likes and about 20 comments. I am in danger of getting the swelled head, except I probably have to credit Jordan’s photography as much as my cooking.

Tonight’s potato salad is already in the fridge, and Christian will grill our salmon.  One thing about quarantine—we are eating well, and so blessed.

Last night was leftovers or, as we call it, dinner on your own, because I wanted to Zoom attend a 6:30 meeting of the Tarrant County Historical Society. I connected to the meeting without a problem—I really am getting better at this—but couldn’t figure out why my picture didn’t show. A few minutes in, I was gobsmacked—isn’t that a wonderful word?—to realize I hadn’t pulled out my laptop. There’s obviously no camera on my remote monitor, so to participate I have to open the laptop so the camera can see me! It’s a bit of a problem with my new computer set-up, but I will figure it out and remember this learning lesson for when I’m on a panel next week for a big national mystery fan convention.

And the bar—I’ve not been to many bars in my life. Back when I was single and head over heels about my first love, they were still called cocktail lounges. I can still see one in my mind—dark, soft music, leather booths with high backs for privacy. But bars? The crowded, raucous kind authorities want to keep closed these virus days? Not for me, though my grown kids more than once suggested I might meet an eligible man in one. Eligible? At any rate, I’ve found online a bar that intrigues me. It’s the Bookbar in Denver—a wine/book bar. When you belly up to the bar, you find yourself at a long, chest-high bookcase crammed with books. My idea of heaven—books and wine. I tried to copy the picture, but the internet didn’t cooperate. So here I sit with a new book on my Kindle and a glass of wine at hand. Almost Heaven. (My friend Linda will get that if she reads this.)

 

Two who set standards for me to live by

Two men who profoundly influenced me are much on my mind in these troubled times. One is my father, Richard N. MacBain, and the other is Charles D. Ogilvie. Both were physicians, liberals, men of intellect, honor, and integrity. And both cared deeply about our country and were avid followers of politics. I would never wish anyone dead, but there are days when I think it’s a blessing that they are not with us. They would be so upset at the current state of the country.

Dad, living in Chicago although Canadian by birth, was a lifelong Democrat. He always claimed he voted for the best man, but we all knew that in his judgement the best man turned out to be a Democrat. Roosevelt was a hero to my family, and I grew up on the stories of what he did for America. In the household of my childhood, there was no television—I didn’t have Howdy Doody, Disney on Sunday night, and a host of other programs. We finally got a TV because Dad wanted to listen to the Kennedy/Nixon debates. He found Kennedy inspirational, though he would be horrified if he knew what we know today about the man’s personal life; he found Nixon despicable.

Dad was a preacher’s kid and a staunch member of the Methodist Church all his life. Integrity, faith, honesty—these were deeply engrained traits. I saw him put friendship behind principle when necessary, and I saw him hold his head high and remain firm when he was the target of abusive verbal attacks by an unhinged former friend. He was administrator of a small hospital, where the maintenance and housekeeping crews were among his best friends. Dad put democracy into action in his own little sphere.

My father taught me many things, including punctuality and a strong work ethic that I can’t deny even if I want to. I disagreed with him about some things—he once, with good intentions but bad judgement—changed the course of my life. I’ll never know if it was for the better or not. But I loved him, and I will always, always respect him. He would be distraught today.

I met Charles Ogilvie when I was a young married woman and knew him for over thirty years until he died, somewhere in his nineties. My family vacationed at his East Texas ranch, and my kids called him “Uncle Charles.” He was an anomaly in East Texas (think Louie Gohmert country)—a futurist, an environmentalist and naturalist, probably an agnostic although he attended the Unitarian Church in his last years. Charles’ integrity came from an inner standard ingrained into him, whether by his parents or himself I never knew.

He had the misfortune to live long enough to see the Tea Party flourish in this country. Those people fascinated and repelled him, and he often talked to me about his fear of their power, assuring me they were not people I would like.

Dad had Nixon; Charles had the Tea Party; and we have the era of trump. I am truly grateful that neither man lived to see people like the trump family take over the White House, to see racism flourish again, to see armed militia became so powerful and common that they are declared domestic terrorists, more dangerous than most foreign powers.

Both men valued the intellect and were avid readers, not of light stuff like I write, but heavy, serious things—Churchill, Will and Ariel Durant, and others of that ilk. Charles read futuristic works that I had never heard of. They would be beside themselves at the dumbing down of America, the disdain for education and intellect shown by a good number of our citizens, and, gentlemen to the core, they would be distraught at the decay of manners, the lack of class shown by so many.

Dad and Charles, I miss you, but rest in peace. You would not be happy in the 21st century.

Going way back in time and memory

Photo by Marc Monaghan

A great blast of nostalgia hit me when I read my email this morning. One message from the Hyde Park (Chicago) Historical Society contained an article about Promontory Point, the scene of many of my happiest high-school memories, although in retrospect they are tinged with a bit of adolescent awkwardness.

Better known as just “the Point,” it is a finger of land that juts out into Lake Michigan from about 55^th Street on Chicago’s South Side. Daniel Burnham, the architect behind the city’s recovery from the Great Fire and the man still, all these years later, responsible for much of Chicago’s architecture, envisioned a city park in a thin strip along miles of the waterfront. The 40-acre Point made entirely of landfill and completed in the 1930s, long after Burnham’s death, was the southern most part of what became Daniel Burnham Park.

Aerial view 1940

Chicago Public Library

Along with an abundance of native trees, two things mark the Point in my mind. One is the pavilion, partly open shelter and partly one large enclosed room. Sometimes our church youth group reserved the pavilion for a picnic supper or some such, and I think maybe I went there with the Girl Scouts. I know we all used the smelly restrooms (I hope today that feature has seen improvement.)

The other feature emblazoned are my memory are the revetments or retaining walls of huge blocks of stone that kept the Point from dissolving back into the lake. When I was in high school, my friends and I rode our bikes to the Point where we spread our blankets and unpacked our snacks, radios, and suntan lotion on the grass above those rocks. If you wanted to swim, you jumped in off the rocks, watching carefully for those that were submerged. The water was cold and deep.

I was probably as good a swimmer as any of the others, but I had learned to swim on the sandy beaches of the Indiana dunes where the caution was always, “Be sure your foot can touch the bottom. Never get out over your head.” The big fear was the undertow which could drag you out too far to swim back. So I swam, always parallel to the shore, always touching my foot down. No way I was going in that deep water with nothing to hold on to but slippery, moss-covered rocks. I was always afraid the other kids would think I was chicken—and they would be right.

A family on the stone revetments

photo by March Monaghan

The kids I met at the Point mostly came from my church youth group, but my friend Eleanor Lee and I were kind of the hangers-on with the group, most of whom were older. We knew them all well because frequently when they weren’t at the Point, they gathered at Eleanor Lee’s house, thanks to her older sister Elizabeth. Neither a raving beauty nor an accomplished flirt, I felt like a bit of an ugly duckling and longed to be “cool” enough to be casual with those kids, probably high school seniors.

Years later, when I actually dated one of those older boys fairly regularly, we must have outgrown the Point. I don’t recall that we ever went there. I think too by then it was less safe than in our day, when there were people spread all over it on weekends. I think by today it has been reclaimed and residents feel free to go there, stare at the lake, sit on the stone benches.

It is such a place of strong memory for me that I managed to work it into my new mystery, Saving Irene. Henny and her next-door, good-looking, not-interested-in-girls neighbor, Patrick, ride bikes to the Point and picnic.

This morning it was like magic to see those scenes again. I hope you’ll like these pictures from the Point.