Absolutely no pajamas at dinner

 

The other night I was called out for coming to supper in my pajamas—let me stress that for me, pajamas are only the bottom and I wear a T-shirt on top. In my further defense, I have to say I helped cook supper, and it was in my cottage. But those aren’t really good excuses. During pandemic I spent the day in whatever I slept in but found it important to clean up and dress for supper—for my own sake as well as the rest of my local family. Lately I’ve occasionally slipped, and Jordan was letting me know about it. She didn’t say “absolutely no pajamas,” but I heard it in her tone. And it got me to thinking about absolutism.

In today’s world, absolutism—the rigid acceptance of rules or philosophy or theology—really bothers me. I find myself looking for people who have a little give and take in them, who can look at each situation individually rather than blindly applying a set rule to it. A prime example is all the posts you see that say if people would just obey the police and not resist, there would be no police brutality. They even apply it to the George Floyd murder. Really? He was way beyond resisting while Chauvin still had his knee on his neck. And we hear of victims, especially black men and boys, shot in the back. Sure, they’re fleeing out of fright. Does that mean you have to kill them? What about the 73-year-old lady with dementia—was it in Colorado?—who was brutally mishandled, her arm broken and shoulder dislocated. And the officer who did it later bragged about it, about hearing the shoulder pop. Sure, she resisted—she didn’t understand. Could the officers not have defused the situation without brutality? Police, like anyone else, need empathy, not absolutism. Fortunately, many of them have it.

I spar on Facebook—no other word for it—with an old family friend, the son of friends. I remember him as a youngster. Today we have totally different approaches to life, and, to me, his is absolutism. He sees everything in black and white. Recently in a response to a post that denied the idea that colleges teach liberalism and pointed out instead that colleges and universities teach critical thinking—if that makes folks lean left, so be it. He replied that he had gone to college, was educated, and he doesn’t lean left (how well I know that). But then he said, “There is absolutely no doubt that colleges teach liberalism.” I cautioned him against the word absolutely, but I know it fell on deaf ears.

Today it was that people who would rather collect unemployment than work are the major problem in this country. Uh, no. People collecting unemployment have to show proof of an active job search and unemployment is not forever. Most people collecting it would much rather be gainfully employed. It’s a hard market, though it’s getting better.

I am delighted that the almost-fifteen grandson I live with wants to discuss these issues, wants to see both sides. Sometimes I think he leans a bit right, but that’s okay as long as he doesn’t topple over into extremism. I pray that I too may always look at both sides of an event, incident, whatever. I remember a saying my mom was particularly fond of: Before you judge another person, walk a mile in their moccasins.

From the deeply philosophical to the mundane: it’s another gloomy, damp day, but my mood has been better (as if you needed to know that). Or was, until I tried to write 300 words of a new book. They are dreck and will probably be deleted. But I remind myself that those first words are the hardest. I will sleep on it and try again tomorrow. Meantime, out of the blue I had an idea for another mystery in the Kelly O’Connell series. I’m playing with it in my mind.

Jordan is gone tonight, helping a friend move (and that’s another story about a landlord with no empathy), and I am fixing supper for the boys. Stuffed chicken thighs that are so easy that I’m embarrassed to talk about it. Maybe in next week’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog. And I am almost finished with one of the best mysteries I’ve read in a while. A pleasant evening.

Tomorrow? Sunshine is predicted!

Walking on the sunny side of the street

 

Jordan's Cobb Salad for our dinner
So good, and a great way to use what's in the fridge;
with a quick, creamy dressing I've just discovered

For many of us, internet exchanges these days are too often confrontational. There are so many outrages in our world, so many lies and distortions, that I cannot resist commenting. So a couple of recent pleasant exchanges were wonderful surprises.

One had to do with fast food. When someone mentioned Chick Fil-A, I commented that I liked the food but will not patronize them for political reasons. A woman I don’t know responded that she chose her food for taste and not politics nor friendship and wasn’t that okay. I responded that of course it’s okay, but I just choose not to enrich the coffers of a corporation that espouses inhumane philosophies. The same, I added, is true of Hobby Lobby. It’s okay for people to believe whatever they want, but when it negatively affects and hurts others, it breaks a certain boundary. I can, at least, I said, give my beliefs some weight through action. The woman who asked thanked me for explaining my position and commented that it would be nice if all of us could talk in that way on social media.

The other incident was a few days ago. A woman posted from a very conservative point of view, and when I disagreed (I must learn to keep my indignation to myself) she wrote, “That’s my opinion, and you are entitled to yours.” I replied that while I totally disagree with her, I admired her civility, and she thanked me, said she wished everyone could be polite.

This has also been a day of introspection for me. I have realized that in addition to being outspoken about politics and social culture, I am really good at knowing what other people should do with their lives. It’s hard for me to keep quiet. But with age, hopefully, comes a bit of wisdom. Today a good friend told me she was going to do something I thought totally wrong for her situation, but I managed to say why, once, and then let it go. And I will be supportive of the course of action she chose.

The weather is part of the reason I’ve been so introspective today. Rain has threatened all day but stayed to the west of us. Tonight, it is moving closer, and Jordan says we expect a storm with possible hail by nine. Actually, I have found the last two days kind of depressing—gray skies, heavy humidity, neither hot nor cold. And apparently tomorrow is supposed to be even worse. Ah, springtime in Texas.

Jacob, with the wisdom of fourteen years, said tonight it would be cool if we had a tornado, and I wondered what had become of the little boy who was so terrified of storms. Once he insisted that I hide in my closet with him. Fortunately, it was a long, walk-in closet with plenty of room. He had put a chair, a candle, and a glass of wine in there, getting it all ready for me. Then he settled himself with a pillow on the floor. If I remember correctly, I had a book and contentedly read until he deemed it safe for us to emerge. Other times, in storms, he would silently come from the trundle in “his” room to my bed and crawl in without a word of explanation. Sadly, those days are long gone, but now, Sophie comes close to that, though if she gets on the bed, she is uncomfortable and antsy and soon jumps off, all of which is not conducive to my sleep.

So here I sit, the world growing dark around me, with a glass of wine and a good book. Let it storm—only no hail or tornado, please!

Not my finest day

 

When by late morning the only thing you can say you accomplished is refilling soap dispensers, you have a pretty good indication that this isn’t going to be your finest day. Actually, it did get better for a bit, but there was discouraging news too. The press that I had hoped would jump at the idea of my Helen Corbitt manuscript rejected it—kindly but firmly. The director wrote that he didn’t see a market for it since the updated cookbook is available and people are more interested in recipes than her life. I know you’re not supposed to protest, but I did gently, telling him the point was not her life but her importance in the culinary and retail history of our country. But a no is a no, and I must move on.

The question is what my next project will be. Seems to me I have two options: researching presses that are interested in women’s studies and/or culinary history or writing that memoir I keep babbling about but doing little on. Today I decided it would not be a cohesive narrative but rather a series of connected essays. For a start, I labeled a section, “A Life with Dogs,” and listed all the dogs I’ve had in my life. Quite a list, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten some. And then I did a bit on the overall picture—but just a bit. Maybe I’ll work on that tomorrow, though I managed to fritter away much of today—you know, filling soap dispenser and the like.

On a more positive note, Carol, my favorite historical consultant, sent back my Sue McCafferty sketch for the Handbook of Texas with just a few suggestions—that lady knows how to ferret out long-buried facts that I never can find. As always, she improved the profile a lot, and I have now sent it off to the editors. Carol still has the profile of Charlie McCafferty, but I expect it in a few days.

We had leftovers for dinner—always welcome when they’re good, and these were—Doris’ casserole, our family favorite, and a big, tossed salad. So that was another bright spot. And so was menu planning with Jordan, a process I always enjoy. We even settled on a Mother’s Day menu, since they will host Christian’s family which means ten people of varying gastronomic tastes. Shhh! I won’t divulge the menu, lest someone object with “I don’t eat that!” But I will say I have committed to make a big potato salad. When I was a kid, cold turkey and potato salad were always my requests for my July birthday.  

The weather has not exactly brightened the day. It’s been dull and overcast all day, although so far the rain has held off. Still, we expect storms tonight, with more likelihood tomorrow. Temperature is warm, but happy hour plans are on hold. Our usual Tuesday night guests both cancelled, which led me to wonder if I had offended them.

I’ve been trying to track down my good friend Betty, who fell, broke her hip, and had surgery last Thursday. The only reports I’ve gotten are from ministers at the church, where she was music director for over forty years. Phone calls went unanswered, and then I found out I had the wrong cell phone number. No one responded to repeat messages left on the landline at their house, but I know Betty’s husband does not like to talk on the phone. Tonight, I finally learned that she was transferred yesterday from the hospital to a rehab facility, and I’ve gotten the correct (I think) phone number. So perhaps tomorrow I can talk with her. When I told a friend I’d heard Betty had considerable pain, she said, “Hips are bad things.” I couldn’t help but chuckle and say, “Tell me about it.” It has been slightly over four years now since my hip revision surgery (that’s different from replacement). So I hope I can be encouraging to Betty. And I’m glad to be past the frustration of wondering where she is, what’s going on.

I’m going to go to sleep and wake up with more ambition. One rejection won’t stop me on a story I feel needs to be told.

Trivia Sunday

 

Maybe that's a tad too many haricot vert

Talked with a friend, slightly older than I am, on the phone, and she confessed that she’s falling a lot. About once a week. I told her she needs a walker, and she said, “Oh, I have one. It’s in the garage.” I told her it would do her no good there. I get so frustrated with people who won’t use walking aids when they need them—whether it’s from vanity (who wants to look old?) or convenience. She claimed the walker was hard to handle, so I sent her an Amazon link to the one I call my chariot. Honest, I wouldn’t, couldn’t be without it. In the four years I’ve used it, I have not fallen once. As long as I have my purple chariot, I walk with purpose and confidence. And I try not to bend over it—my surgeon said if people do that, they slap them upside the head!

Food experiments go on. In an effort to enlarge our vegetable choices and get away from asparagus as the only fresh green we eat, I marinated and roasted Brussel sprouts. Christian liked them, though he said they weren’t as crispy as the ones at Pacific Table. I flat did not like them. Honest, I tried. I remember eating them as a child, and I don’t think I liked them then. Now that they’re so trendy and popular, I went at it with an open mind, but no banana.

So I said I’d try fresh green beans—you can do a lot with them and keep them crisp and good. Christian’s immediate comment was that he doesn’t like them as well as canned, because that’s what he grew up on (he opened himself to all kinds of comments there, but I restrained myself). Then he said, “They’d have to have the point-y ends removed.” Really? Who served him untrimmed green beans, unless they were haricot vert—maybe those tiny French green beans are what I should try. Once a friend of mine who prides herself on being a plain and simple country girl, was served those at a fancy country-club luncheon. She didn’t like them; I explained they were a delicacy and told her the name. Her retort was, “I don’t care what you call them. They’re beans, and they’re raw!” Vegetable suggestions would be welcomed but I have a long list of forbidden things—peas, sweet potatoes, any squash, etc. Jacob loves broccoli; Christian hates it as badly as Nixon did—or was that the elder Bush.

Reading trivia: I just finished a cozy mystery that will go unnamed. I chose it because it is set in a town that I am sort of familiar with. Not, however, familiar enough to recognize anything much. But it is a debut novel, which showed—the author explained all her red herrings. To my mind, you write red herrings in to make the reader think of possible perpetrators, but you shouldn’t explain them—takes away the fun. Also, the author spent way too much time in the main character’s mind, reviewing possibilities and why this one or that could be the murderer. Again, something the reader should puzzle out. It amounts to telling to much—and padding to up the word count.

So now I’ve started the newest book in the Wine Country Mysteries, The French Paradox, by Ellen Crosby. I’ve enjoyed others in the series and looked forward to this one. The opening line is, “I found out about my grandfather’s affair with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis when I read my grandmother’s diaries.” An auspicious beginning.

An almost perfect spring evening tonight—lovely temperature, just a tad too much wind. Kids had gone to Joe T.’s to eat with Christian’s family so Jean came over, and we ate al fresco on the patio—Italian style tuna sandwiches. Tuna, hard-boiled egg, and salsa verde (garlicky with anchovies, so good) on artisan bread. Recipe called for a baguette, but this was much better. Only one problem—Jean wanted a small sandwich, a piece of bread maybe two inches at best, so I followed suit. It was not big enough to hold sandwich ingredients. Tomorrow, for lunch, I will go with more a more generous hunk of bread.

Another week ahead. Hope it’s a good one for everyone.

What my imagination does to a bit of excitement

 

North Texas was under severe storm alerts this afternoon and evening. Predictions called for hail the size of ping pong balls and strong winds. So far, we’ve had one nice spell of rain—medium heavy with thunder rolling. I’ve said this before—my mom told me thunder was the gods bowling. A recent article for our neighborhood newsletter, which I edit, came from a neighbor with thirty years with the National Weather Service. His description of thunder is that it’s a warning of bad things to come.

The nice folks behind me are tearing out their back porch and replacing it with a screened-in porch and putting in a pool and a cabana/guest house. All this will take time—I’m guessing the whole summer—and will entail a lot of construction noise. But they are good neighbors and have done their best to see that I am not disturbed (my cottage is right at the property line at the back of our property, so close to whatever they’re doing).

Today the young man called to tell Jordan workers digging at the back of their lot detected a strong smell of gas near my tankless water heater. Of course, Jordan semi-panicked, came running out to the cottage, and I called our plumber. They said they’d send Lonnie, who is more than familiar with the house and cottage—I’ve used the same plumbing company for over 25 years.

But before Lonnie could get here, the sky darkened and the thunder rolled, and my imagination conjured up a vision of lightning striking near leaking gas and an explosion taking out my cottage—and me. Seriously, the thought flitted across my mind that this could be the day I die. On the other hand, I was concerned that this foolishness would interrupt my nap. Oh, the trivia we choose to worry about. Fortunately, Lonnie arrived.

He sniffed and smelled—nothing. The ground was wet, but he saw no bubbles which would indicate a leak. He saw a sewer line that the cap had come off, and said if you’re not a plumber, you might not recognize the difference between dangerous gas and sewer gas. And if you stand near the tankless heater when it kicks in, you get an odor—fumes, not gas. He assured me I was perfectly safe but just to err on the side of caution I should call the gas company. Am I the only customer to whom the plumber says, “You have a good day now, sweetheart”?

The gas company is beyond efficient, but they can scare the daylights out of you. They have an obvious prepared list of cautions: leave the area at once, do not use your phone again, do not move a vehicle, no open flames, etc. l told the woman I would go to the opposite end of the house and nap—no need to tell her how small the cottage is—and she laughed.

So all is well that ends well. The Atmos guy said it was no doubt the start-up fumes from the tankless water heater, and he saw no problem. The only problem I see is that now I’ll get another plumbing bill, and they are never modest.

And our storms? They’re due to be over in fifteen minutes, and the sky does not look at all threatening. I’m grateful there was no hail, but darn! I’d have loved a good rain. I guess I’ll sleep well tonight—no gas leak, no storms.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Trees, flowers, and memoirs

    

My flowers and Jordan's Little Red Riding Hood basket

The neighbors behind my cottage are adding a screened porch to their house, a pool, and a cabana/guest house. Behind me is close—the cabana will maybe be ten or twelve feet from the wall of my cottage. These neighbors are good, responsible citizens, and they have bent over backwards to assure I am not disturbed. I am not. The only time noise would bother me is when I want to sleep in the afternoon, and my bedroom is pretty much like a cave.

 But there is one noise that sounds worse than scratching on a blackboard to me, and that’s the saw that tree trimmers use. So this afternoon, just as I lay down to nap, someone started to take out a whole tree. Have you ever tried to sleep with that high-pitched whining? I closed the bedroom doors, confining Sophie with me. That worked for about two seconds, and then she protested. I think she must be claustrophobic, because when I opened the sliding door into the kitchen and told her she could do what she wanted, she settled down and slept next to my bed. Serendipitously, the whining noise stopped, and I did get a nap.

Jordan made up for my interrupted nap by bringing me flowers. She stopped at Central Market for the feta I need tomorrow. After declaring she didn’t want to run around looking for a lot of things, she confessed she overbought—including flowers, Cotswald cheddar, a new flavor of yogurt, and other delicacies.

She was cooking dinner tonight since I wanted to attend a six o’clock Zoom meeting, but all the ingredients for supper—chicken/pesto pasta—were in my fridge. So she loaded up a basket and announced, “I am Little Red Riding Hood.” The picture above combines her basket and the flowers she brought me.

The Zoom meeting tonight, sponsored by Story Circle Network, featured two authors—one a novelist, the other a memoirist, talking about the requirements, advantages, and drawbacks of each genre. I have, as I’ve mentioned, been interested in memoir in a sort of distant way. I always thought a memoir was the story of your life. My first novel, After Pa Was Shot, was fiction based on a memoir by the mother of a friend. The woman, probably in her eighties in the fifties or sixties, sat down at a typewriter, wrote “The Story of My Life,” and created a fascinating manuscript. But these days some people are writing several memoirs. The thought today is that memoir covers one episode, say three to five years. I can’t wrap my head about that. I want to look at the whole of my life put together. One author tonight said if you write about your life, as Michele Obama has done, it’s biography—I would correct that to autobiography. But the difference to me is that autobiography recites the facts; memoir invests those facts with emotion.

Both authors have written books about adoption, which should have hit home to me—but didn’t, because their experiences were so different. Julie McGue’s memoir, Twice a Daughter, is about her experience as an adoptee seeking information about her birth family so that she might have some family health history. The Sound Between the Notes, by Barbara Lynn Probst, is a novel based on her experiences with her adopted daughter and the daughter’s affinity for music and the health history that intervened. One great line: “You can’t create music when you are angry.”

But both are about searches for birth parents, and that’s foreign to me. My four children have never expressed any desire to search, even in the face of such health concerns as epilepsy, Crohn’s disease, and possible effects of maternal drug use. I suppose the two authors wouldn’t understand my feelings—Probst, for instance, knows her daughter’s birth mother. For me, I am more than content that my children are mine. I am grateful to their birth parents, aware of the sacrifice they made for the child’s sake, but I see no need to share them. We are an unusually close and happy family—no small trick with four adopted children and a mostly single mom.

Memoir to me would involve what one author tonight called “working through stuff.” I would want to recall my life, to figure out its patterns. I’m not fooling myself that the world is waiting breathlessly for this story. If I write it, it would be for me—and perhaps for my children.

Enough. I’m going to read a mystery and forget the thornier problems of life in general or writing in particular.

What more can be said about Derek Chauvin?

 

I love sitting at my desk, late at night, looking out the big window to my right at the back yard. It’s peaceful and quiet, flooded with soft light from the fixtures over the door of the main house and at the side of my house. I know, I know—we should treasure the darkness, and I do. But lights in the yard—and a motion sensitive light in the driveway—make me feel safe, even with an electronic gate that is firmly closed. In our neighborhood, we have what we call night visitors—people, usually young men, who check out driveways to see who has left a car unlocked with anything from pocket change to computers available for the taking. Also, just for my own pleasure, I have a light outside my French doors with a screen or something that throws tiny specks of green light on the wall of the back house next to me. I love looking at that display, even when I wake in the night, and have recently discovered that it stays on until about six in the morning. Wasteful, I know, and I should re-set it, but I’m not sure how to do that. So I just enjoy.

Tonight, Jacob was out hitting golf balls against his practice net in the driveway, but now he has gone inside, and all the dogs are in for the night. The yard is quiet and peaceful, and that’s the way I feel. Peaceful.

Like so many across our country, I am relieved, satisfied, ecstatic about the verdict in the Derek Chauvin trial, though I try to imagine what it would be like to be him and know the country is rejoicing because he’s been convicted. But then, I cannot imagine being him and keeping a knee on a man’s neck for over nine minutes. I want to feel some sympathy, some emotion for any human being, but he makes it hard.

I kept the TV on most of the day, muted, curious to see if the verdict would come back. I knew that if it came today, it would be guilty; if any jurors were unconvinced, it could make for long, drawn out deliberations. I told myself that having twelve jurors agree unanimously to three charges was a long shot, and I was geared not to expect much.

I napped, as I always do, this afternoon—and dreamt that the verdict came back. So I was only a bit surprised to wake up, look at my phone, and see that the verdict was in. I rushed to turn on the TV and got so carried away I did not do my PT exercises. (I suppose I may be forgiven one day’s vacation.) I was struck by the peaceful yet joyous crowds outside the courtroom, the flickering of Chauvin’s eyes as the verdict was read, though he tried to show no emotion, and the passionate speeches by President Biden and Vice-President Harris.

The internet is full of hopeful messages that this is the beginning of a new era in law enforcement, albeit with a recognition that change comes slowly. I don’t know about that. Even as I read all those positive statements, I remembered Sandy Hook. We thought surely that horrific slaughter of innocent children would bring a wave of gun control measures—and nothing happened. After a week or two, the world went on, leaving devastated families to grieve and cope as best they could. The Floyd family has gotten public support—tonight, it was everyone from Al Sharpton to—was that Jesse Jackson in the background? But President Obama went to Sandy Hook, spoke, and cried. I can only hope that this time the nation’s compassion has come out, this time we recognize what’s happening to our country, this time we see that, as the mayor of Minneapolis said, we cannot continue to live this way.

Even as the verdict was being read, a teen-age girl in Ohio called police because girls were fighting outside her house. They arrived and shot the girl who had called four times. And though I haven’t seen blowback, I hear that police across the country are threatening to resign. And a recent interview (was it 60 Minutes?) revealed that police are training Poor Boys and Oath Keepers in police and military tactics. It’s hard to cling to hope in the face of such outrages.

I am, by nature, an optimist, so tonight I cling to hope. I pray that this momentous day marks a starting point for change, that Americans rise up against police brutality and for gun control, that George Floyd did not die in vain. Pray with me, please.

Temptations of the reclusive life

 

Tonight, there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”

My inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long, so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s navel. It all sounded awkward.

But there is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating, not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing tendency to be a recluse.

The very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women (why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively) interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well, most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every morning is one of the ways I start my day.

I do think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles, and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot of work.

Now that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).

I am grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the back of my mind.

A formal farewell on a dreary day

 

It’s our third consecutive dreary, chilly day in Fort Worth and, frankly, I’m ready for some sunshine. I watched the ceremony for Prince Phillip this morning, and I think, in a great reversal, it was sunnier in England than in Texas.

I viewed the funeral with mixed emotions—the music was gorgeous, and I loved the bagpiper, but then I’m a sucker for the pipes. My Scottish heritage comes out ever time I hear them. But the church (was it a chapel? Cathedral?) was very formal and very dark. It was a blessing that no cameras focused on the few individual mourners—I suppose they were forbidden—but at first, I couldn’t even tell if there were people seated in the pews. And even at a funeral, I expect the clergy to bring some life, some lilt to their presentations. These men—three that I counted—mostly read and mumbled, but then I am not familiar with the Anglican church. My impression is that much of any service follows a prescribed ritual, and there is little room for personal embellishment. The prince had apparently request that there be no eulogy.

Outside, though, the atmosphere was totally different. As the family walked behind the casket to the church, you could see both Prince Charles and Wills struggling to contain their emotions, and as many media sources pointed out, they were no doubt reliving in their minds that grief-laden walk behind Diana’s casket. But when they left the church, they walked with more purpose, and this time Wills and Harry walked together. Of course, there is much speculation about a reconciliation but there has been no word.

My two take-aways from the day: I have now seen that picture of the Queen sitting alone (social distancing), along with many comments about how sad it is, and a couple of ghoulish comments that she would be joining Phillip soon. Don’t count on that, and no, I didn’t find it sad. She is an incredibly strong woman, shaped for years for her position and now having been queen for just shy of sixty-eight years (if my math is any good). She ascended in 1952. She has lived her life for her country, from WWII forward, and while, yes, Phillip was her “stay” as she said, she will carry on with true British grit. And she has family to support her.

A friend of mine just lost her husband, also at the age of ninety-nine, and she wrote a moving essay titled, “He is still here.” By here, she meant the rural farmhouse they have shared for years. I think Phillip is still in the castle.

The other take-away made me smile. One of the clergy (forgive me I can’t sort out which one, but it was a gentleman who apparently knew Phillip well) was later quoted, discussing Phillip’s own plans for his funeral, to the effect that Phillip “liked the broad church, the high church or the low, but best of all, he liked the short church.” And that’s what today’s service was.

Slowly, we are seeing some pictures of the royal couple in casual moments, and they reinforce the idea of a great love and a live well lived together. Today I saw one of the newly crowned queen walking past her husband, she in ceremonial robes and carrying some ceremonial object and he in uniform, and in that solemn and formal moment and setting, they were both grinning, with a twinkle in their eyes. Phillip may have had to walk a pace behind her, but they seem to have been happy equals in the marriage.

At their ages (and mine, although they do have a few years on me) I think what we ask of life is not wonderful new experiences or new loves, but rich and warm memories. I know have them, and I trust so does the queen.

Beyond watching the funeral, it hasn’t been much of a day, though I did write another r profile and almost finished it. Now, it’s nearly seven-thirty, Christian is grilling steak and burgers, and I have done my best to reawaken some very tired asparagus. After supper, I think I’ll read. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Maybe sunshine.

Sometimes the day goes awry—it’s okay.

My baked egg
Tasted better than it looks
Great way to use leftovers

My dreams often reflect what’s on my mind any given day, and that was the case last night. In sleep, I alternated between cooking for a guest I expected tonight and writing a profile for which I’d just found a bonanza of information. It was a busy night, and I woke early, anticipating a busy day. 

The recipe I planned to fix is, once again, one of those my family won’t touch but my guest would, I hoped, enjoy—tuna Florentine. No, not fresh tuna, but that good, canned tuna that I order directly from a small, independent cannery in Oregon. It’s one of my favorite dishes, but I almost never make it for myself because it’s a bit of a process—takes a guest to inspire me. There are three layers—the spinach base, the creamed tuna with Swiss and Parmesan cheeses, and a breadcrumb topping. Plus somehow I had tunnel vision and did not think of an appetizer, side dish, or dessert. I had decided on deviled eggs for an appetizer, a German cucumber salad instead of a salad—who needs a green salad with all that spinach? With all that cooking, I figured writing that profile would just have to wait another day. 

I woke to a wet, rainy, cool day—not the kind that inspires ambition. But I made my tea and settled to check email before I cooked. And then came the email—my guest had suffered allergy troubles all week and now had symptoms of a sinus infection—fever, etc. Luckily, she wrote before I defrosted the frozen spinach, opened the canned tuna—no harm done. So, I re-grouped and spent the morning writing. Got almost a thousand words done, but they were hard-pulled words, as I went back and forth between sources and text. As usual, what I thought I could knock out was not that simple. I have more newspaper articles to check, more writing to do. 

So now, at suppertime, I have spent the day with my only human contact one phone call (straightening out a bank misunderstanding, always fun) and one actual human contact so brief I hardly knew it happened—Jordan came out to get milk out of my fridge, and she was off to a meet-and-greet for a city council candidate not from our district. But Sophie and I have had some long discussions. She let me know she would like more supper, and I let her know she is on a weight control program ever since Colin was here and said she was heavier than he had ever seen her. 

I’m going to make myself a baked egg—with that leftover lemony-herb rice in the fridge, a few frozen peas, a bit of ham, some grated cheese—oh, and not to forget the egg that sort of justifies the whole dish. I’ll top it off with some sour cream to keep the egg from drying, though milk or cream would be better if I had it. It’s one of my favorite “dinner-on-my-own” dishes. 

I admit to a slight sinking spell when I woke up from a nap, maybe from having slept too hard. The rest of the day seemed to stretch out endlessly, but I did my daily Facebook check and also those tiresome exercises the physical therapist insists upon—my conscience prodded me—and pretty soon it was time for the news and a glass of wine, and the world looked brighter. 

 And here is a story to brighten anyone’s day: a young man visited his grandmother in a memory care facility. As he left, he said, “It was good to see you again,” and she replied, “It was good to remember you.” “You remember me?” he asked, surprised. “I don’t remember your name,” she said, “but I remember that I love you.” 

And speaking of love, I’ll watch Prince Phillip’s funeral tomorrow. Will you? Such a marvelous love story, and I am a big fan of the Queen. But then, I’ll also be checking those newspaper sources and working on that profile. Sounds like a good day to me. Hope you have good weekend plans too.

Meeting a local politician

 

No, it wasn't happy hour as the wall hanging says.
It was morning coffee and politics.

It would be disingenuous of me to say I am not a political person. I have definite ideas about politics, and I am frequently outspoken about them, especially online. But I actually know few politicians personally, except for one longtime family friend who I value. So it came as a surprise that city council candidate Jared Sloane called and asked if we could meet for coffee or sit on my front porch and talk. I said we could sit on the patio.

This led to much dinnertime speculation last night—what did he want? Why me? Turns out his campaign manager suggested he talk to me, which prompted the observation that said campaign manager is a Republican and I am a yellow-dog Democrat—was conversion the goal? See two flaws in this speculation? One is that someone wants something, and you must be on guard; the other is that the world is divided into Republicans and Democrats when in truth we were talking about a nonpartisan position.

So, Mr. Sloane—okay, Jared (he’s ten years younger than my youngest child)—came by this morning, and we had a nice chat. He did want something—my vote and my support. He was open and honest about that and instinct tells me he answered most of my questions honestly. When I asked how much, really, a council member can do to affect the course of affairs in the city, he said, “Not that much.” We talked about mayoral candidates and I was able to tell him about the TCU area people who blame a council member, wrongly I think, for the proliferation of stealth dorms in the area—he didn’t know about the talk against this particular candidate. We talked about a council candidate who dropped out of the race with respect and empathy. We talked about religion and whether or not it should affect appraisal of a candidate.

And we talked about books and his family—his mom owns a bookstore and his stepmom is trying to write a mystery. There’s that small world again. He told me his background--Indiana, where he was active in politics and then a firefighter--and his family, a wife and daughter. And his civic activities here--board chair of the Arts Council, president of his neighborhood association, an alum of Leadership Fort Worth.  But the conversation was casual and comfortable and not at all a hard-sell, “Vote for me.” I liked him as a person, felt he was sincere, had some new ideas, and he would represent new blood in city government—diversifying away from establishment candidates is a big deal for me.

All in all, it was a pleasant forty-five minutes in the sunshine on my patio. And now there’s a Jared Sloane sign in our front yard. I won’t preach, “Vote for Sloane,” but I will urge friends and family who live in District 9 to give him serious consideration.

And you know what? I admit I’m a bit flattered that a political candidate sought me out.

Farewell to elegance

 

Marshall Field & Company
State Street, downtown Chicago

Lunch at Neiman Marcus has always been a special treat for me. That demitasse of consommé and the popover with strawberry butter. I once tried to make that and ended with globules of butter floating unattractively in strawberry jam. Clearly, I need the restaurant.

I’ve been doing some research lately on Helen Corbitt, the cook—she never called herself a chef—who oversaw Neiman’s food service from 1955 to 1969 and elevated the food to world class. Inevitably I’ve read a lot about Stanley Marcus and the whole history of that specialty store. So, when the corporations that now own Neiman’s announced almost a year ago that they filed for bankruptcy protection, I felt sad for the demise of yet another of the few bastions of elegance I’ve known in my life.

Years ago, I had a Neiman Marcus charge account, had my hair cut in their salon, dined in Fort Worth Zodiac frequently. For several reasons, I’m not so much of a customer anymore, but Neiman’s will always represent elegance to me. And I find the store’s history as a family business fascinating—sort of the ultimate success of a mom-and-pop store. It was founded in the first decade of the twentieth century by salesman Herbert Marcus and his sister, Carrie Marcus Neiman, and stayed in the family under the legendary Stanley Marcus until the 1970s when Mr. Stanley stepped down as chairman of the board. A series of leveraged buyouts saw it change owners frequently, and my unsubstantiated guess is that prices went up while quality went down. No more the philosophy that any sale was only a good sale for Neiman’s if it was a good sale for the customer. The whole atmosphere changed, and to me became less welcoming.

I’m grateful Fort Worth still has Neiman’s—in a new location, yet—and I can go have a demitasse of consommé and a popover with my chicken salad for lunch. But it isn’t the same. Somehow, I feel quality has become crassly commercial.

I don’t think any such heavy thought occurred to me when Chicago’s Marshall Field & Co. was purchased by Macy’s in 2003 and essentially disappeared. I remember, again, a sense of sadness. I last lunched at the original store with a friend in the ‘90s, and we found the famous Walnut Room, the classic upscale restaurant, a bit shabby. Perhaps elegance doesn’t always last.

But that store on State Street was my childhood playground. My dad, a physician, had his office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex, and you could go under the Wabash Avenue from store to annex. I could roam the store at a fairly young age, and as a teenager, I’d ride the “IC” (Illinois Central commuter train) downtown to Field’s by myself. I could lead you blindfolded to every department in the store, though I was especially fond of the teen apparel section and the restaurants. I liked The Verandah better than the Walnut Room. Then again, I knew where in the budget basement they sold hot dogs and something called a chocolate frosty.

When I wrote The Gilded Cage, about Bertha Honoré (Cissie) Palmer and her husband, Potter, I delved a bit more into the origins of Field’s. The store traces back to a dry goods store on Chicago’s Lake Street, opened in 1857. It went through several iterations, a longtime partner, and at least two devastating fires, before it finally became Marshall Field and Co. in 1881 and later moved into its twelve-story, opulent headquarters at State and Randolph just after the turn of the twentieth century. Want to learn more? Read What the Lady Wants, by Renee Rosen.

Obviously, I learned a lot more about the Palmer House from my research for my novel, The Gilded Cage. Potter Palmer arrived in Chicago in the late 1840s. By the time of the Great Fire, he was a successful hotelier and had just built the Palmer House. It was totally destroyed, but the plans had been saved in an underground vault, and Palmer rebuilt, adding more luxurious detail as he went. Like Field’s store, the hotel catered to the wealthy, fulfilling their every wish from fresh flowers throughout daily to the silver dollars embedded in the floor of the world-renowned barbershop. From writing about the hotel in the late nineteenth century, I felt like I knew it well.

Truth is, I don’t remember ever going to the Palmer House all my years in Chicago, but in late 2016 my four children and I went to the city so I could show them where I grew up. Naturally, after The Gilded Cage, the hotel was high on my list of places to visit. We had lunch there one day and took the historical tour—it’s the only hotel I know of with its own museum inside and a historian on staff. We craned our necks at the ceiling murals and exclaimed in awe over everything from the 24-karat gold Tiffany chandeliers to the souvenir ashtrays in the museum. Want to know more about the Palmer House? Read The Gilded Cage. The hotel also figures in my most recent cozy mystery, Saving Irene.

Maybe it’s a sign of the times, for better or for worse, and elegance is being replaced by comfortable casual, but I will always miss these grand old dames of the past. Next on my list is the Drake Hotel, which as a child I considered the epitome of elegance. My four kids and I stayed there on that visit to Chicago, but I will not go back lest I jinx it. It too was fading just a bit.

A fiddle what?

 

Sometimes my experiments in cooking alarm even me. Last night it was fiddlehead ferns. Central Market sent out an email advising that they are available only briefly in the spring. Get them now while you can! Well, who can resist that kind of salesmanship? Surely not me. So I included the ferns with my order, but knowing that my family would be skeptical, I thought I’d order a small amount. A half pound.

Do you know how many fiddlehead ferns are in a half pound? Or how expensive they are (we won’t even go there). Last night, my family was gone, and I was fixing dinner for Jean and me, so I decided about noon to search directions on the web. Well, I was almost sorry I did that. I rinsed them—and the first water came out muddy, though it was not dirt but moss-like stuff that was attached to the ferns. And not all of it came off. So then I hand washed each fern—that took some bending over the sink which made my back ache. Then I parboiled them for two minutes, prepared an ice bath, plunged them into that, and let them sit for an hour in ice water. Are you seeing how much work this was?

I drained them and realized there was still quite a bit of that moss-like stuff on them, so more hand cleaning. Finally, I decided that they were ready to cook—if that moss was bad for you, Central Market would have taken it off or put a warning label or something (see the faith I have in my favorite grocery store?). I told Jean I would sauté them briefly in butter, salt and pepper and then add a squirt of lemon—which I promptly forgot when I served them.

We had tuna pasties, potato salad, and fiddlehead ferns. Jean liked them better than I did. Despite all that boiling and soaking, they retained a nice crispness, and the taste was somewhere between young asparagus and fresh green beans. They were good but not remarkable. I decided on the path of least resistance, sent them home with Jean, and never mentioned them to my family. I hope she uses them in a salad because I bet they’d be really good.

Otherwise, it was a cooking weekend—Sunday’s real project, before I realized how much time and trouble the ferns would be, was to make tuna pasties. They were good, but I need to work on the proportion of filling to biscuits. But Saturday night—ah, that was a triumph.

I thought Jordan and I were cooking scallops and lemony-herbed rice together, but she kept disappearing. So I did the rice. Now, I’m not much of a rice cooker—we didn’t eat it when I was a kid, and my adult idea was pretty much to follow Uncle Ben’s instructions. But this called for sautéing the raw rice in butter, with green onions, then steaming in chicken broth and finishing with lemon butter, parsley, and the chopped green parts of the onion. Pretty darn good, but by the time I got it ready, I’d run a marathon. I told Jordan she could cook the scallops.

Panic ensued, because she thinks I’m the only one who gets them right—crisp on the outside and soft inside. I talked her through it, with her saying all the time, “I’m in the weeds here.” Because I was being cautious, we didn’t cook them at as high a heat as we should have (induction hot plates necessitate some decisions) and they cooked a bit too long. But they were wonderful. And Jordan said, “That was fun! My first time to cook them!” So the evening and the meal were successes. Christian was out to a men’s only dinner, postponed from its usual pre-Christmas date.

And now I have so many leftovers—ate sausage for lunch, chicken in crescent rolls for supper with the lemony rice. Still have a cheeseburger, some tuna filling for pasties, scallops (just went in the freezer tonight)—and I can’t believe I just marinated some chicken drumettes for tomorrow. We’ll have them with the rest of the potato salad. We do not suffer from a lack of variety around here.

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

The magic of leftovers

 

These are the pasties I meant; not the other kind.
Mine, however, never look this pretty.

My neighbor was one of seven children. He grew up eating leftovers, and to this day, he won’t touch them. No matter how good, if it was served before, he’s done with it. I’ve tried to explain that some things get so much better if they sit in the refrigerator overnight, but he is adamant. (I seem to run across a lot of adamant people these days, but that’s a digression.)

Right now, I have a surfeit of leftovers, and I am loving the luxury. Mostly I enjoy cooking, but it’s wonderful sometimes to have plenty to eat without having to cook. So this morning I had bangers and mash for breakfast—people eat sausage and potatoes for breakfast all the time, so why not in this form. In case you didn’t know, bangers is the Celtic term for sausages. I claimed that cooking bangers was a tribute to my Scottish heritage, but the truth is the label on the package clearly says, “Irish bangers.” They were a special at Trader Joe’s for St. Patrick’s Day. The mash, of course, is mashed potatoes. I steamed the sausages in beer, then caramelized some onion and garlic, added thyme, and made a gravy out of Better than Bouillon. (I could digress again here about exploring Scottish food; I have eaten blood pudding and found it unremarkable, but now I want to try mushy peas—I used to think they were just smashed English peas but they are a variety unto themselves. For another time.)

As luck would have it, Jordan had a sudden, overwhelming allergy attack while I was cooking the bangers. She came to tell me she was taking to her bed, and she didn’t think Christian would eat supper which would leave Jacob and me with a huge meal. I was not thrilled to have spent all that time cooking, only to serve it to a teen who would probably be reluctant about eating it and would certainly scorn the onions. Somehow I coerced Christian into joining us (maybe he was afraid of exploring bangers and  mash). At any rate, he joined us. pronounced the dinner good, and we had a lively three-way discussion of everything from the Chauvin trial to local elections for city council.

I was concerned, however, because there was nothing green on our plates. Another digression: once I was having lunch with a man I was dating when I looked at his plate, saw chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, and exclaimed, “There’s nothing green on your plate.” He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” That incident sticks with me.

My leftovers today include half of my cheeseburger from last night and a whole, untouched cheeseburger plus a lot of potato salad. Christian grills the best ever cheeseburgers, and I made pickle potato salad to go with them. Thanks to daughter-in-law Lisa for the recipe which includes a surprising amount of either chopped dills or dill relish, along with some pickle juice. I used what I had—gherkins—and when I first made it thought it was so “stout” that nobody would eat it. But that was ten in the morning, and by supper the flavors had mellowed and blended. Turned out to be one of the better potato salads I’ve made, which suggests to me I should follow recipes instead of winging it—at least with some things. Next time, though, I won’t be cheap and use salad mustard—Dijon would be better.

And the leftovers will keep coming. Tonight, Jordan and I will be alone and will have seared scallops (hard to get them just right with crisp outside and soft inside but I come darn close) and herbed rice. There may or may not be leftovers. Tomorrow night I am fixing tuna pasties (there I go with British/Celtic food again) for a friend and there will undoubtedly be leftovers, which will freeze nicely and make good lunches. (Another digression: I just had a shock; looked up pasties online, thinking to get a good definition, but the first definition and the Wikipedia entry are about covers for certain parts of the anatomy, male or female—not at all what I had in mind; pasties are tiny meat pies; oh my goodness!)

Megan, my older daughter, often cooks up a storm on weekends so that she has meals for the workweek ahead (she is a lawyer and works long hours). I’m thinking I should try that, not that I work long hours. Still, having those leftovers is calling me.

Excuse me, it’s lunch time, and I have half a hamburger and some potato salad to eat.

No biggie

 

Ever have one of those days when little things go amuck—no biggie, but you are left with the lingering feeling that the world is just slightly out of whack. That was my world yesterday. I started the day by filling the teakettle—for some unknown reason I poured all that water into the cup that was waiting for a tea bag. Of course, it promptly overflowed all over the counter while I watched in absolute amazement.

The day didn’t get much better. The PT guy said he would be late because he had to get his brakes worked on. He usually comes at nine, which I find a bit early, so at first I was grateful. But I found it hard to dig in and work on much of anything, not knowing if he’d show up and interrupt any minute. Finally, close to noon I texted that it would work best for me if we cancelled. So we did—and he came and took a chunk out of my morning today. I know, I know—I should be, and am, grateful because I’m getting stronger, able to walk farther without resting, but I itched to be at my computer and not doing endless repetitions of shoulder shrugs and kicks and so on.

And yesterday the case whatever (manager?) was the same—I was waiting to hear from her, but she finally called about noon and said it would be today. So this morning she came and took my blood pressure and measured my oxygen—which the PT had just done an hour earlier. Redundancy.

I closed out yesterday by dropping a couple of mushrooms slices, dripping with the butter they were sauteed in, on the clean shirt I was wearing—and I’d just had compliments on what a cute outfit I had on.

I thought I was through with the day, but no. About two o’clock this morning—does that still count as yesterday? —I woke with the realization that the cottage was really hot and stuffy. I stumbled around, trying to turn either or both of my heating/cooling units to a/c but was unsuccessful. Finally gave up and fell into a fitful sleep. This morning I called the a/c repairman who gave me straightforward directions over the phone and, of course, that worked perfectly. I should never try to do anything mechanical at two in the morning—and only rarely any other time of day! Now I have the French doors open and just enough breeze blowing in that the cottage is comfortable. Who needs a/c?

A good thing about yesterday: late last night I finished a mystery that I was thoroughy enjoying—Three May Keep a Secret, by Susan Van Kirk. The title comes from good old Ben Franklin: Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead. The novel, first in a series of three, is everything a good cozy mystery should be—small-town setting, retired schoolteacher as protagonist, enough history to make it interesting. Fire, as in raging, fatal infernos, fuels this mystery, and Van Kirk writes about it with some authority. Apparently, she knows fires almost as well as she knows small towns. Now I’m moving on to Finding Freedom, a memoir by the owner of the iconic Lost Kitchen in Freedom, Maine. The restaurant is staffed entirely by women, takes reservations only on postcards, and specializes in using local products. Dinner is $200 per person and from all reports worth every penny, and the waiting list is long. It’s on my bucket list.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow—a day with no obligations. I can sleep until Sophie and I want to get up, I can work undisturbed, we have a simple dinner plan—bangers and mash (the Scot in me is coming out even if they are Irish bangers), and my Canadian daughter is coming for happy hour. Yes, I will do my shoulder shrugs, kicks, and walking—accompanied by Sophie who goes frantic over my exercise for some reason. Wish I could read that little brain.