Whine, whine, whine

 

Our redbud tree
with a youpon getting in the way.

This has not been a good day. In fact, it’s been the kind of day when I feel I ought to make a list of everything that went wrong. Little of it had a silver lining.

Sophie has been under the weather—perhaps literally because of last night’s storms. She did not eat at all yesterday, although she did take her two treats. Even turned down a bit of Velveeta—okay I had wrapped a Benadryl in it, and maybe she sensed that. What she did eat was grass—always a bad sign in a dog. If it made her throw up, she fortunately did it outside, because I never saw it. Of course last night’s thunder terrified her, and she wandered about the cottage in the night. She slept most of the morning, perhaps recovering, but did eat this afternoon.

Electronic woes beset me. It took me at least forty-five minutes to make a payment, due no later than tomorrow, on my new dental insurance. Since I have a dental appointment next week, I wanted to make sure it was paid. The site would not take my credit card and I finally had to give my bank information, which I do not like to do. Then I once again attacked the Credit Karma site that my Colin recommends. I couldn’t do it, gave up, and emailed him. Colin ended hosting a Teams meeting so I could watch what he did. After almost an hour, he decided the problem was that a freeze was on my credit records with the three main bureaus. My assignment was to lift the freeze. One bureau had no record of me, my birthdate, my social security number, my address, etc. According to them, I don't exist. A second one immediately flashed a screen that said it couldn’t process my request and to call them. At the third I went through the process of opening a new account, required because I hadn’t used the site in too long. I got all the way to verifying my identity and was stymied. Decided I failed the test. The ball is in Colin's court, though he doesn't know it yet.

I’ve been having hearing aid problems. Thought I had them solved, but today my aids would not let me hear on my phone. Resulted in some funny calls, like me singing, “Colin, can you hear me? Colin, can  you hear me?” Finally in exasperation he texted, “I can hear you, Ma.” I couldn’t hear him at all. I have an appointment with my audiologist Monday, but that’s a long time to go without talking on the phone. I already had a difficult time trying to talk to a doctor’s office today.

To top the day off I had a stomach problem—will spare you the details, but I won’t be eating dairy for a while. So much for the pecorino I will put on baked chicken pesto tonight for the others in my family. I love cheese and live on it, probably the problem.

So I’m looking for silver linings: Sophie is back “at herself,” I got to see Colin and talk with him today (no, I don’t invent computer problems just so I can call him, but it works well), and it’s a beautiful spring day. The trees that two days ago had little tiny bits of green now have that light green fluff of two or three inches that indicates leaves are on their way. I see a bit of green in the zoysia grass, which is always late to green up, and the redbud tree is in glorious bloom. And the sun is shining brightly—surely tomorrow will be a better day!

And here’s a day brightener for all of us. Gabe Fleisher of Wake Up to Politics reports that people became kinder in 2021, according to research from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School. The World Happiness Report released earlier this month found that “global rates of helping strangers, volunteering, and giving to charity are nearly twenty-five percent above pre-pandemic levels.” So much for William Barr’s belief that mankind is inherently evil! If you don’t know Fleisher’s daily column, check it out at Wake Up To Politics It’s fair, accurate reporting from a college sophomore with a national news reputation. Good stuff.

 

 

 

Fiction as disguised memoir

 

Georgia Arbuckle Fix (and Mattie) did not consider herself attractive.

“Write what you know” is classic advice to beginning writers. Sometimes it’s true. I probably shouldn’t write about traveling to Antarctica because I’ve never done it, and no amount of research will make me warm to the subject (okay, bad pun). The flip side of that advice though is the general belief that creative writers pour some of themselves into everything they write. I’ve had a strong lesson in both these truths this week.

I’ve been reading proof of Mattie, my 1988 novel that will be reprinted by Two Dot in coming months. First published by Doubleday in 1988, it tells of the life, career, and loves of Mattie Armstrong, pioneer woman physician on the vast and bare prairies of western Nebraska in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, who was the first woman physician in Nebraska and who really did leave Omaha to heal the widely scattered settlers in sod huts on the prairie. But don’t attribute everything in the novel to Dr. Fix. That the novel won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year, was high praise, especially in a category one man angrily declared was for the men’s action adventure novel.  The funny news about the original Doubleday hardback is that it was in their Double D Western line, which sold mostly, I’m told, by subscription to prison libraries. The digital edition, indie published by me at something like ninety-nine cents, sold well for years, making it the bestseller of any book I’ve written. Now it will be in a hardback again.

If you can’t attribute the fictional story to the real Dr. Arbuckle, you can attribute a lot of Mattie’s story to the real Judy Alter. Re-reading it, after all these years, I realized that in some ways I had written the memoir that I was always reluctant to attempt. When she was first settles on the prairie, Mattie meets a charming, charismatic man with a sad story about being disowned by his wealthy family back in St. Louis. Against the advice of her brother and stepfather, Mattie marries Em Jones, who turns out to be, as we would say in Texas, all hat and no cattle. In 1964, against the advice of my family, I married a medical student and followed him to Texas (the Texas part worked out well). The two stories are variations on a theme, but it’s all there—the sweep-you-off-your-feet joy, the domesticity, the quarrels over money and child-raising (I had a few more children than Mattie’s lone daughter), the growing estrangement, and the final betrayal. My ex and I divorced in 1982; the book was published in 1988. I had had time to process, but I don’t think at the time that I realized that I was writing my own experiences into Mattie’s life.

In her forties, Mattie Armstrong developed an unlikely relationship with the uneducated but skilled workman who single-handedly built her a two-story sanitarium on the prairie. Here’s a spoiler: the relationship was never meant to last, and he rides away, both of them filled with regret for what could not have worked on a permanent basis. As I was writing the last pages of this book, I was in the midst of the one serious relationship I had after my divorce. I clearly remember sitting at my desk and pecking out the scene where he leaves—and the realization came like a load of bricks that the man I thought loved me—and who I thought I loved—was going to leave. As it was for Mattie, so it was for me—decisions turned out to be right, and a more than satisfactory life followed.

I have talked before about my reluctance to write a memoir. Oh, I wrote Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books, but it was a surface memoir, hung on a peg of cooking. I don’t think in it I came to grips with the emotions involved on my journey. And I have since shied away from memoir.  With minor variations, this novel is the memoir of two significant periods in my life. I’m still processing that realization.

My children may say this is TMI, as they put it, but it’s something I felt I needed to say. And one other thing: Mattie’s husband was Em, short for Emory; the builder was Eli (okay I hadn’t yet learned the lesson not to give two characters names starting with the same letter). The original dedication to the book was “For Em and Eli/They know who they are.” Em is dead now, and I suspect Eli maybe too. But I have asked the editors to restore the original dedication, replacing the one now that says it is for my daughters. They have enough books dedicated to them. I want them to know how close this story hits to home.

 

 

 

 

 

Glorious weather means gardening and guests

 

Sophie, waiting for happy hour company
on the patio

North Texas has had glorious weather for several days in a row now, and we are enjoying it—highs in the eighties, yet too early for mosquitoes and the humidity that blankets and smothers us in summer. The zoysia is still brown and dead-looking, but it’s always late to come back. I can see the first few buds on trees, and the bougainvillea is ready to burst. Jordan has new plants in many of the pots, and the patio is once again inviting. It has been a busy, cheerful place this past weekend, much to Sophie’s delight—and mine.

Saturday night, Jean came for supper. Talk about making someone sing for their supper, she had to go by curbside pickup at Central Market for hers. Then when she got it here, Jordan froze it. I went to get lamb chops out of the fridge and couldn’t find them. Fortunately, they hadn’t had time to get very frozen. I was on a nostalgia kick, so I paired lamb chops, which I think of as a somewhat sophisticated entrée choice, with down-home old-fashioned pea salad and carrots cooked in chicken broth. The latter are, of course, two things my family won’t eat. I need to make a list of dinners to fix when they are out, since they once again have busy schedules. But back to Saturday, Jordan joined us on the patio for happy hour before she and Christian went to a dinner party.

Sunday afternoon all three Burtons worked in the yard. At one point I saw Jacob come up the driveway, wearing dirty garden gloves, head down, and I wished I had gotten a picture. I would have labeled it, “The Reluctant Gardener.” He was not amused when I told him that. Christian planted the lettuce seeds I’ve been trying to get planted for several weeks—some in my moveable garden, some in a big planter. I’m looking forward to wilted lettuce. When I mentioned I want another pot of chives, Christian pointed to my green onions which are flourishing, so I gave him a lesson in the difference. I had the same pot of chives for years—it came back every spring—but snowmageddon killed it. I saw an apropos book today, titled The $64 Tomato. Like everything else, gardening is expensive and when you do it on a small scale, like we are, you have to do it for freshness and taste, not to save money.

Sunday night the Burtons went to PF Chang’s in Grapevine to meet Christian’s family. I was almost tempted to go along, because I haven’t been to a PF Chang’s in forever, but I had invited the Greens and the Springfields for happy hour. I made Margaret Johnson’s crab canapes—easy, absolutely delicious, and showy. Watch for the recipe in Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Margaret is our across-the-street neighbor and a good friend of Jordan’s, and I am indebted to her for a happy hour where I learned just how good those little bites are. But I have also seen the recipe online, so I don’t think it’s an exclusive. It was fun to get those four people together last night. Just before they left, Phil said to me, “A beautiful evening, Judy” and made it sound as though I had invented the perfect weather, including the slight breeze.

Sophie loves having a crowd on the patio. She goes from person to person, making sure there’s always a human hand idly stroking her head. When people arrive on the patio, she’ll race inside and bark at me, as if to say, “Come on! What is taking you so long?” Eventually, she settles down next to whoever she picks, a perfectly content dog.

This morning I wasn’t through with the patio. We had scheduled a meeting of four neighborhood women about a shift in responsibilities for the Poobah, the newsletter I edit. Amy, our association president, was held up at the last minute, but Subie, Debra Million, and I met on the patio. Jordan had provided an extensive coffee service, but Subie was the only coffee drinker. I did serve banana muffins—that is, I served them with Subie doing all the work. Inside the cottage, I can serve guests, but it’s impossible for me to go over the raised lintel from cottage to patio with anything that will spill, drop, break—you name it. If I can set it safely in the small pouch on my walker, I’m good to go—but few things meet that criterion.

So tonight, Jordan is off staying at a friend’s house much closer to where Jacob has a tournament today and tomorrow, and Christian is at work. I am at my desk with bright sunshine and lovely fresh air pouring in the open French door. I’m enjoying the weather while we have it, because storms are predicted for tomorrow night. If they bring rain, that will be a blessing. Texas in in a drought, wildfires are racing across the central part of the state, and every green growing thing needs moisture.

Sunday night thoughts in a jumble

 

 

University Christian Church
Fort Worth

 My thoughts are all mixed up tonight with politics and religion. While I, perhaps too often, let this blog veer into politics because I can’t keep quiet, tonight I feel compelled to talk about the intersection of politics and faith. Because deep down, I know as sure as anything that my politics are dictated by my faith.

I am still chewing on the quote in Heather Cox Richardson’s column a day or two ago to the effect that William Barr, former Attorney General, believes that the constitution does not separate church and state. Somehow, he works the First Amendment, which states that Congress shall make no law regarding religion, into a statement that the Founding Fathers believed that man, being inherently evil, needs a strong Christian government. For one thing, that’s a terribly arrogant argument—does he believe that he is above evil and knows better what us poor nasty folk need? For another, how does he mis-read the Constitution to that extent?

Separation of church and state is generally traced back to a letter by Thomas Jefferson which essentially put into words the concept of the First Amendment (remember, I’m no constitutional scholar, so I’m on shaky ground here). But Article Six of the Constitution effectively rules out the establishment of any state religion. I wish I could just dismiss Barr as a wild hare, except he speaks for the “originalists,” people like Amy Comey Barrett, maybe Brett Kavanaugh and Clarence Thomas (that’s a whole different story for another time), and the whole of the Federalist Society. He’s not just a lone voice. Even Senator Ben Sasse, obliquely chastising Ted Cruz for seeking a Fox news spot with his rudeness to Judge Kentanji Brown Jackson, said he admired the judge but could not vote for her judicial philosophy.

Then this morning a state legislature candidate in Tarrant Country made oblique reference to the death penalty for abortion. That logic is so screwed I won’t even attempt to wrap my mind around it. But just after I read that I listened to Russ Peterman’s sermon at University Christian Church, where he talked about prescriptive or legalistic religions—religions with strict rules. The question: is religion made for rules or for mankind? Evoking those Christian churches where congregants emerge every Sunday filled with guilt for their sins, Russ questioned whether religion is about guilt or grace. You know the answer he led us to.

I want so badly to remind those who would restrict our lives with laws—against abortion, against gender affirming care, against widespread voting, against interracial marriage (yes, that has been mentioned), against certain books, that if they follow Jesus’ example, it’s all about love, not about hate nor rules. Read 1 Corinthians 13: 13 or better yet read all of 1 Corinthians. What these people are talking about is in no way a Christian state. And even if it were, that overlooks our Constitution. We are not a Christian nation; we are a nation of diverse people and faiths that welcomes all. Christianity in its many forms is the most followed religion, but it has no corner on the market.

What scares me about all this is that it all ties together—William Barr, the Federalist Society, Amy Comey Barrett, Greg Abbott’s mean and inhumane laws, Proud Boys, trump (though I doubt he understands the philosophy and just considers it from an opportunistic point of view), Ginni and Clarence Thomas (she apparently is a passionate believer). I don't mean to be a conspiracy theorist and yet I can see how this all comes together in a vast network conspiring to overthrow democracy as the Founding Fathers intended it and as, until recent years, we knew it. The emails exchanged by Ginni Thomas and Mark Meadows confirm this.

And it sort of comes down to your view of mankind—evil or beloved of the god of your choice. My faith dictates that I am on the side of those who believe, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. And of these, the greatest is love.”

I’ll quit preaching now and promise tomorrow a light-hearted post about busy days and good food at the cottage. It’s hard to be lighthearted these days, but there is always a positive side to life.

Texas on my mind

 

Given that much of my career has been built around the literature and history of Texas, I suppose my dream last night was not a surprise. I notably have colorful dreams—yes, in technicolor, and I hear sounds and smell good things. And sometimes I remember them well into the next day. I used to say my best writing was done at three in the morning when I was asleep. Alas, that’s not true anymore, but last night’s dream has stayed with me.

I was getting ready to go to school, though I wasn’t certain if it was high school or college or what I was doing there. (I frequently have that college dream where I haven’t been to class all semester and now it’s finals and I’m in a panic, but this was different). I remember putting on makeup, including that horrible blue eye shadow we used to think was so smart. And then, somehow, I was teaching a class—in an outdoor classroom with a huge body of water in the background (the Gulf?). I had to go back inside to get my sunglasses.

The class was on Texas culture, and I decided to let the students teach the class. (That’s a favorite technic of mine: I once taught a writing seminar using the City of Fort Worth as a focus and even took the kids on a bus tour and supper at Star Café in the Stockyards—medium successful). This time I said each would be asked to do an in-depth study of some aspect of Texas culture—not just the usual broad categories of food, music, geography, but digging deeper. And then the class and I began to come up with topics: how do Texans raise their children? What are Texas religious values? How does geography shape our lives—divided into regions like coastal South Texas, the High Plains, etc. Now I can’t remember all the topics we came up with, but at the time they were brilliant.

I decided this dream is worth mentioning because it illustrated to me what a wonderful place Texas can be. And knowing my sympathies, when I woke it led me to the next thought: we must not, we cannot let hardline, alt-right conservatives constrict Texas with their tight laws on abortion trans kids, LGBTQ lifestyle, school curriculum and library books. Texas has a wonderful and rich heritage—okay some myth, mixed with a lot of truth. And today we are a rich and diverse culture, with contributions from many heritages that blend to make a remarkable whole. We cannot let that be erased and consigned to the dump heap because Greg Abbot, Dan Patrick, and Ken Paxton want to play to their base and further their political careers. Folks, our ancestors (okay, I’m not a native Texan and can’t claim them but many can) fought and died in the Texas Revolution for the life they wanted to live in Texas. I’m not at all suggesting we take up arms, but I am suggesting we have to fight—and fight hard—at the polls, in public meetings, in school board meetings, any place we can make our voices heard.

I was impressed with many articles about Madeline Albright, several of which repeated her statement that she was late in coming to make her voice heard, but once she found her voice, she would not be silenced. I so agree with her, and I think it’s up to each of us—particularly Texas women—to make our voices heard. Women are so involved in abortion, child-raising, education, and we can make such a difference.

That thought logically brought me to Ukraine, where women are fighting alongside their husbands and sons. I cannot say strongly enough how overwhelmed I am with the spirit, determination, and resilience of that people as a nation. The world has not seen anything like it since the resistance fighters of WWII. But you know what makes me love those people all the more? The ones who flee to safety, leaving loved ones behind to fight, take their dogs and cats with them. I find that a remarkable show of loyalty and courage. That they would look out for their pets is such an important statement of who they are.

Pray for Ukraine, for the people, for the animals, for their charismatic leader. Who knows when the world will again see such courage and determination? And pray for Texas, that we can be free to live our lives as we want and not according to dictates from our state government. Make it happen!

 

Small smiles and a pet peeve

 

Sophie waiting for happy hour

Several things yesterday and today gave me small smiles—I like moments like that. Last night it was far too chilly for happy hour on the patio so Jordan, Mary, and I gathered in the cottage. Sophie sat on the deck and stared at the cottage for the longest time. We couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Much later it dawned on me—she was trying to figure out why we were inside and not outside with her. She loves happy hour when there’s a guest!

Some time ago, Dean Jones, who bills himself as the Well Seasoned Librarian, interviewed me for his podcast. The interview covered the whole of my career and gave me a chance to talk about some of my books and how they came about. Today, I finally got the link and listened. At first I thought my voice quavered, like an old woman (hold those comments, please!) but as the interview progressed I must have felt more at ease because my voice got stronger. A couple of times my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember  simple fact or a title, but I think that was just on-the-spot nerves and not failing memory.

The ”well seasoned” in Jones’ moniker comes from the fact that he has a special interest in food and food writing. He apparently was attracted to my work by the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, but then we had a good talk about Gourmet on a Hot Plate, the book and the blog, and I told him my story about seeking a publisher for a biography of Helen Corbitt, the Neiman Marcus food lady who really was a fascinating woman aside from her career at Neiman’s.

You apparently have to sign up for Spotify to listen, and that took me a chunk of time this morning. But now I have a Spotify account I will likely never use again. If you’re interested, here’s the Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/episode/2nGkxjM8qFsbuE44nUDGJ6?si=-2pgSQ8TSnu24ja1yuZryg. The interview runs twenty-nine minutes.

A pet peeve I’ve only recently developed: It is slowly dawning on me that when Jordan and I go to my medical appointments, everyone from the doctor to the receptionist talk to her about me, as if I weren’t there or were incapable of understanding. I didn’t really catch on to it yesterday in the endodontist’s office, probably because I was so relieved to have the procedure done with. But last night, talking about it, I realized he told her that I should eat soft foods, nothing crunchy. He explained the medications (none of which I took) to her and showed her the x-ray of my tooth. When I complained about it—to Jordan, after the fact, she said, “The screen was behind you. You were still in the dental chair.” Maybe so, but if I’d be alone, he’d have gotten me out of that chair, into my transport chair, and wheeled me to the screen.

By contrast, Monday I went to the eye doctor alone—Jordan dropped me off and picked me up, but I was in the doctor’s exam room alone. The young doctor carefully explained to me three options for surgery that might improve my vision. Without them I see well enough to drive, if I were still licensed, and certainly well enough for my daily routine. I told the doctor that I didn’t want any surgeries that were not absolutely necessary, and he accepted that saying, “You seem to have a good grasp of the condition of your eyesight and the options open to you. We’ll do nothing and check again in a year.” I loved the words, “You seem to have a good grasp.” Of course I did. My mind still works, just not my legs so well.

I think it is a common misconception among those in the health care professions. If they see an elderly patient with a walker or a wheelchair, they automatically, though probably unconsciously, assume some degree of dementia. Every time I mention it, Jordan says I’m imagining it, but it’s happened too often.

I resolve as of today to take more direct charge of office visit with physicians. After all, I’m the one that schedules appointments and deals with the physician’s office (I am blessed to have several docs that I can communicate with by email), and pays the bills. I don’t mind if they call me “Judy” instead of “Mrs Alter”—in fact, I prefer it. But I want to be talked to, not about.

As you can tell from this post, dementia is an ongoing concern with me. My mom developed it, from a series of TIAs or small strokes, when she was about the age I am now. I think my ongoing involvement with the writing world and my active voice about politics and current affairs helps keep that wolf from the door. But I loved it when Christian said the other night, “Well, you certainly don’t have dementia.” Wish I could remember what the conversation was about.

 

 

Color Me Done!

I have been poked and prodded, studied and examined, from head to toe—well almost. Within a very few weeks, I have been to the cardiologist, the dentist, the endodontist, the podiatrist, the ophthalmologist, and my family physician. I have worn a Holter monitor, had a mammogram, learned that my eyes aren’t as good as I thought and rechargeable batteries are no longer available for my hearing aids. I have had blood drawn and, today, a root canal. I am through, I tell you---through, through, through!

Mostly, the intensity of my medical update is my own fault. During the omicron surge, I cancelled appointment after appointment. When it comes to medical matters, I am not one to do it today if I can put it off till tomorrow. Eventually, of course, my conscience catches up with me—along with a little voice that says, “what if?”

Anyway, today was the root canal. I will not lie and say I was not nervous, because I was. Afraid of the fear and anticipation. I would not want to have the procedure often, but it was painless—just a lot of lie still, don’t move, and don’t’ swallow kind of stuff. The doctor was kind, the set-up incredibly efficient and professional—and now it is behind me. I am so grateful.

I read a blog today by an author who is a good friend. We’ve never met, but we’re Facebook friends, and we agree on a lot of things. Today she wrote about distraction in these difficult times—how hard it is to write. I really found that true these last few weeks when I was so occupied with medical matters—and dread of the root canal. All that seemed to pile on top of Ukraine trauma and global worry, for what Putin has done attacks not just Ukraine but the balance of the global system.

I think most of us, at one time or another, think what’s the point? What’s the point of putting one foot in front of the other, if the world as we know it is going to end? Oh, I’m not talking about nuclear holocaust, though that possibility looms on the horizon again as it did in the 1950s. I’m talking about a change in world order—from democracy to autocracy, Fascism, dictatorship, whatever you want to call it when a handful of the entitled rule and have all the wealth while they make life miserable for the rest of us. As a person of faith, you can’t tell me that is what God intended for our earth.

We see all the danger signs, the biggest of course being the ongoing brutality in Ukraine. But never overlook the small warning signs here at home—book banning, laws passed by the states that over-ride the Constitution and a Supreme Court that seems inclined to look the other way, the denigration of public education in favor of charter schools, the overreach into people’s personal lives, be it their reproductive life or their parenting of trans children.  It’s all very scary.

The blog I read today gave me pause about one thing: the cozy mysteries (hopefully humorous) that I write seem so insignificant, so trivial in the face of the world situation. But neighbor Mary reassured me tonight that people need the distraction, they need to escape to another world. And heaven knows, as an author, I need that other world too.

So tomorrow, I begin again after a hiatus, putting one word on top of another until, the Lord willing, I end up with a novel. It’s a challenge I’ve issued to myself.

You too, no matter what your life consists of, can put one foot in front of the other. And then contribute in whatever way you can to support the people of Ukraine, to fight censorship and authoritarianism here at home. None of us can afford to sit back in complacency.

Remember the words of William Faulkner in his 1949 acceptance speech at the Novel Banquet in Stockholm: “I believe that man will not only endure. He will prevail.”

Preaching over.

.

The dichotomy of a nothing day

 

Some days there’s just nothing to say. The world at large goes on—the violence and destruction in Ukraine continue to break our hearts, Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky and his resistance troops continue to amaze and inspire. Another covid variant surge looms on the horizon, supposedly less lethal but much more contagious. Political ideology and disinformation continue to divide our country—most of you know where I stand on that, so I won’t belabor the point. The supply chain is still iffy, predicted to get worse because of Russia’s invasion and another round of covid. Food shortages are expected throughout the world as the Russia/Ukraine war destroys crops in the breadbasket of Europe. Gas prices increase, but before you moan about that look at what they are across the rest of the world—of course in England, for instance, they are not driving the tremendous distances that we in Texas are.

And when the news comes to Texas, we are now worried about wildfires. Much in Eastland County has been destroyed, and new fires have appeared around Cisco. To the south, evacuations are now being ordered in Lipan, as there is a spreading fire on the border between Erath and Hunt counties. Further south, fires are reported near Huckaby, which I’ve never heard of, but which alarms me because it looks too close to Tolar, where my brother’s ranch is.

The world picture is not pretty. But at home, it’s been the most quiet of days. We had, as I’ve posted, twenty-four hours of lots of company and good food and hilarity, including a welcome if brief visit with three of the four Tomball Alters. Today we’re apparently recovering. I have had only sporadic visits from Jordan and spent most of the day putting together the April edition of our neighborhood newsletter. Who knew when I asked for pictures of spring break trips, I would be inundated with so many? I’m not complaining at all—it will make for a more interesting newsletter.  

Tonight, having expected Christian to fix one of his delicious Asian meals, I instead had a dinner of scrambled eggs. It wasn’t bad at all—I fried some bacon and sauteed the tiny potatoes, left from my corned beef dinner, in the bacon grease before I scrambled the eggs. Made a most satisfactory dinner. So now. My stomach full, my soul soothed by a couple of glasses of wine, I’ll toddle off to my comfortable and safe bed.

And therein lies the dichotomy. I am not alone I’m sure in feeling almost a bit of guilt that I am so safe and content and happy while half a world away people are dying, desperate, sending young children away by themselves, hiding in shelters and wondering if they’ll live until morning. Much as we hear about the contrast between the two worlds, it will never become a hackneyed image. What’s happening in Ukraine is too terrible—and too inspirational. The courage of the Ukraine people puts me to shame for whining about an eye appointment and a root canal—both on my calendar this week.

I want to do concrete things to help, not just sit here at my computer and moan. I have contributed to World Kitchens and ordered a blue-and-yellow sweatshirt and contributed a book to Authors for Ukraine, but it all seems too petty. And, of course, I’ve prayed a lot. But one of our ministers recently said we must never think we’re a step ahead of God. When we pray for peace in Ukraine, God doesn’t throw up his arms and say, “What a great idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” He is ahead of us always; his eye is on the sparrow—and on the big war.

I don’t know that any of this makes sense, but these are the thoughts that go through my mind these days. How about you?

PS: If you want to know about Authors for Ukraine, check out their Facebook page: (13) Authors for Ukraine | Facebook. An auction, March 29 through April 12, will offer books by over 150 authors (including yours truly). All proceeds benefit Ukraine. It’s the least we can do. I still feel I ought to be over there across the Polish border cooking huge quantities of food under the watchful eye of Chef José Andres.

A perfect day—or calm after a jolly night and morning

 

My new good friend, Pierre.
I was always a sucker for a sweet gentleman.

This morning daughter-in-law Lisa asked me what my plans were for the day, and I said, “Nothing. I don’t have a plan.” It was delightful to wake up, know fun visiting waited for me, and not a single deadline, not even one of my self-imposed ones. Yes, tomorrow is the neighborhood newsletter deadline, and I could have been proofing what articles I have, but I didn’t. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

By eight o’clock this morning, Sophie and Pierre were chasing each other around the back yard, an activity that they pursued indoors and out all morning, usually under Gary’s watchful eye. Poor Gary spent his morning saying things like, “Pierre, get off the dining table.” Pierre is definitely a goofy teenager.

About ten Colin, Lisa, and Kegan arrived on their way home from their annual Colorado skiing trip. Jordan and Christian served fruit salad left from last night, cookies, sausage-and-cheese sandwiches in biscuits. I contributed some cranberry/orange scones I had in the freezer. We sat in the living room, munched, ate, and visited.

Just about when the Tomball Alters geared up to get on the road, Colin remembered he wanted to work on my computer, so that kept them here another thirty or forty-five minutes. But I think he fixed the WiFi connection. Of course, now my printer is offline, and efforts to reconnect have so far been unsuccessful. I am thankful for progress, and that recipe for pasta with anchovies, garlic, and tomato paste can wait—but doesn’t it sound good?

The Tomball Alters finally got off, and Jordan, Gary, and I sat on my patio in the lovely sunshine, with the dogs, now exhausted, sleeping at our feet. Jordan and Gary were drinking champagne—I was not!

About one I said goodbye to Gary, who would be heading back to Dallas, came in and did a bit of work at my desk, and then had a good nap. Sophie was so tired she did not wake me up for once.

This evening, after all the hilarity of twenty-four hours, it’s almost eerily quiet around here. Christian has gone to someone’s house to watch basketball, Jordan is asleep, and I don’t know what Jacob is doing though I saw him come home with his golf clubs. I lingered over emails and Facebook, started reading a new book, and fixed my supper such as it was.

What do you eat after a big party? Leftovers, of course. For a late lunch I had salmon spread on crackers and a half of a green deviled egg that Jean brought last night. For supper, I repeated my lunch menu as an appetizer and then made a half a corned beef and Swiss sandwich on rye and sided it with some leftover cabbage from the St. Patrick’s Day dinner. We have an abundance of leftovers, and in my book that’s good. I love gnashing on party food the next day. When I used to give huge Tree Trimming parties at Christmas, I ate caviar and cream cheese, sausage balls, cheeseball, and chocolate cake for days afterward.

I am, I fear, being a baby about my upcoming root canal—Tuesday. Buffered by an eye doctor check-up on Monday—new doctor, new experience but just a check-up. No problems. I have decided not to try to be an author until after all the dental work. I am aware that the thought of the tooth procedure hangs over my head, though I am grateful to my family physician for prescribing a bit of valium for me to take to ease through it. I’ve never taken valium in my life, never intend to again, but I know my own tolerance for anxiety is not great.

So tonight, I’m going to write a book review, read, go to sleep as early as I can get Soph to come inside. It’s really nice to be lazy.

I saw a devastating picture on the internet today. A young boy, couldn’t have been more than five or six, walking alone, bundled up, his face red from cold and crying. In one hand, he had a toy; in the other, a bag of sweets. His parents had sent him, alone, to cross the border from Ukraine into Poland. The picture broke my heart and will not leave my mind. Damn Putin! As I count my blessings—the life situation that allows me to be lazy—I pray for the people of Ukraine. I hope you will too.

 

Sophie has a new friend

 

Pierre, looking very dignified

Sophie had a gentleman caller tonight, and I’m afraid she’s smitten. His name is Pierre, but no, he’s not a Frenchman. He an Aussiedoodle. He's a bit younger than she—almost a year compared to her ten years. In essence, he's a big, goofy teenager and, as his owner says, sometimes quite clumsy. And he’s about half again as large as Sophie is and probably still growing a bit. But he’s a gentleman. And Sophie did not try to boss him or pull her diva act. They played, chased, and had a grand time.

Pierre belongs to Christian’s college friend, Gary, and they hail from Dallas. Gary may be old friends with Jordan and Christian, but he and I are bonded by a love of dogs, a love of retro food—he likes my chicken Divan and tuna casserole, and a passion for liberal politics. It’s a nice friendship.

Tonight was Jordan’s birthday dinner plus the Chicken Divan I’d been promising Gary. The birthday part was great—ten people, salmon spread, meatballs, a green salad, a fruit salad, and tiny ice cream cones. But the main dish, the chicken I’d cooked for Gary, was a disappointment, at least to me though others liked it. I think the problem was doubling the recipe to serve twelve instead of six. Instead of meat bathed in a rich sauce, we got broccoli in sauce (almost like cheese broccoli soup) and chicken without much sauce. Gary’s suggestion, which I like, is to do it next time with thighs—or I have done it with rotisserie chicken and that might be the answer. But now I have to cook it again to prove that I can do it. But a single recipe.

I had thought I had a good lesson in quantity cooking this morning. I sauteed thirteen pieces of sliced chicken breast—a whole lot easier than pounding halves. Then I cooked three large packages of broccoli. Then I made the sauce. In the late afternoon, I put all three together, and apparently that’s where it went amuck. Except maybe it stayed in the oven too long? Anyway I was a bit disappointed.

Next time, Gary gets Tuna Florentine, and we will not have any other guests, though tonight’s was a jolly gathering of a very few of Jordan’s good friends, my friend Jean, Gary, Jordan, Christian, and me. All people I’m fond of, and the conversation was lively.

Like yesterday, it was another day when I had not given myself another chore except to cook the Chicken Divan—and I could snatch moments at my computer, while the various components were cooking. Tonight, though the dishes are all done and put away and the kitchen is clean, I cannot say I have written a word until this blog. That’s been a thread on a blog I follow: is writing work or pleasure? I finally decided that for me the two aspects are so intertwined I can’t separate them. Writing is what I do, it’s my job, and some days it’s drudgery; but some days it is a pure joy, and I’m not sure how to distinguish the two. Maybe I don’t have to.

I haven’t written much this past week and won’t in the coming week, at least at first. This week, it’s been medical appointments and cooking. I’m glad to say the medical appointments have all come out well, with small, minor concerns that we’ll overlook in a woman of my age. And until tonight the cooking came out well—yesterday’s corned beef dinner and the salmon spread served tonight more than saved my reputation. I would love to get back to writing Monday morning, but alas! I have an eye appointment Monday, and—dread! —a root canal Tuesday morning. After that, it’s back to work, but I think I will have to re-read the work-in-progress (Finding Florence, which was until recently, Irene Keeps a Secret). I need to reassess the whole thing.

A note about corned beef: did you know they don’t eat corned beef in Ireland? Or New England. It’s called a boiled beef dinner, with boiled brisket, cabbage, potatoes, onions, and carrots. That doesn’t work for me for a couple of reasons: if I splurge and buy a brisket, I want it cooked long and slow on the grill or in the oven. If I want a boiled dinner, I want the seasonings of corned beef (plus the pickling spices, vinegar, salt and pepper and sugar and, most importantly, ale that I added to it). The corned beef dinner is thought to be a blending of kosher and Irish traditions, which would logically trace back to the days of immigrants in the tenements of New York. A tidbit of history you may not care about, but I find fascinating.

Slainté!

Birthdays, pubs, and corned beef

 

Jordan and Christian on their pub crawl

Ever since she was a little girl, Jordan has known exactly how and when she wanted to celebrate her St. Patrick’s Day birthday. She is, as I posted earlier, my St. Paddy’s leprechaun without an ounce of Irish in her. But oh can she wear the green!

Some years her birthday lasted two weeks or more. This year it’s down to a modest half-week, beginning with a lovely lunch Subie Green hosted at the Fort Worth Club for the two of us. But it was today that Jordan really looked forward to—another friend has a birthday today and suggested they go on a pub crawl. Jordan told everyone, “I’ve never done that,” in a tone that made it sound like all the rest of us have done countless crawls and she alone has been left out. Truth is I’ve never thought about going on a pub crawl, let alone missed it. But we all know Jordan loves a good party.

They started with lunch at Trinity College, a pub near downtown Fort Worth. She sent me a menu, and I admit I drooled a bit: fish and chips, bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie. And of course green beer. I’m not sure where else they went, though I said they should go to Gilligaskins for the famous Irish nachos. They ended on Hulen  but I’m not sure at what restaurant.

Tomorrow night the fun continues with a diverse group for dinner—David (who is her brother from another mother) and his wife, Kelly, Gary, Christian’s college friend from Dallas who has become my good friend because he likes me retro cooking, Jay and Sarah, to whom Jordan has many ties, and my friend Jean who has become one of Jordan’s favorites. Originally, I was to cook chicken divan for Gary—next on his wish list after the tuna casserole I fixed some months back. I am a little overwhelmed by chicken divan for that many people, but tomorrow will be devoted to cooking three pounds of chicken breast, three bags of broccoli, and a double recipe of the cream sauce. Cross your fingers for me. I have already made the smoky salmon spread she wanted as an appetizer.

My St. Patrick's dinner

And today I cooked a good, old-fashioned Irish dinner—corned beef and cabbage, with potatoes, onion (which sort of disappeared), and carrots. I followed a recipe for doing it in a slow cooker, but I used my old-fashioned soup pot. I have no room in my tiny kitchen for a slow cooker or an InstaPot and the latter has too steep a learning curve for me. I just get along the old way. I did use pickling spices (which made me cough a lot) and a lot of ale, plus a bit of vinegar and a tsp of sugar. I checked a couple of recipes for the old way to cook an almost-three-pound corned beef, and then cooked it longer.

Jean came to eat with me, and we both voted that the meat was tender and flavorful. There were leftovers, and I’m already savoring a home-made Reuben with some really good sauerkraut I have in the fridge. Kudos to Mary Dulle for finding the corned beef at a more-than-reasonable price and for turning me on to Sauvern kraut. I had considered sauteeing the cabbage separately because it’s so good that way but was deterred mostly by the idea of one more pan to wash. As it turned out, the cabbage—cooked for the last forty-five minutes in the pot likker—was flavorful and delicious. I’m a bit proud of myself—or my cooking—tonight.

I even started the day well, with a doctor’s appointment. A couple of issues had me concerned, but I was told they were nothing, and the doctor was pleased with my overall state, from Afib to swollen legs, which he said are not unusual. When I moaned I used to have pretty legs, he said, “Well, now you’re just going to have to get by on your sparkling personality.” It’s a good day when a doctor’s appointment makes you feel better about yourself! 

All roads lead to … the zoo

Zoo traffic on Park Place
This is a good eight blocks or more from the zoo entrance.
Photo courtesy Amy Allibon.

Those of us who have lived in Fort Worth’s Berkeley neighborhood for a year or more (in two separate stretches, I’ve been here thirty-two years) know to hunker down on the Wednesday during spring break. That’s half-price day at the Fort Worth Zoo, and the neighborhood becomes, well … a zoo. Today, we saw the worst traffic congestion we have ever seen.

All roads in and out of Berkeley—Forest Park, 8^th Avenue, etc.—were backed up as were side streets within the neighborhood. We were beleaguered, unable to leave our homes. The worst was that first responders would have been unable to reach us in case of medical emergency or fire. And some frustrated drivers became careless—I heard several reports of people driving on the wrong side of the street to circumvent long waiting lines. I know there was a steady, slow procession of cars on my street—the thoroughfare that leads directly to the zoo. I wondered how much fun the zoo would be if you had to sit in your car for a couple of hours to get there, and then half the city was shouldering in front of you for a glimpse of the lions—or a turn at the Port-a-Potty.

Balancing those who worried about danger were those who thought it was wonderful to see so many people enjoying our great zoo and to think of families having this outing together, many of whom might not have been able to afford full price. When some people said “Just wait and pay full price,” one neighbor pointed out rightly this was an equity day—a chance for some to enjoy a privilege most of us take for granted. In my memory, zoo admission was free. Today it is $16 for adults and $12 for children, with a higher discount for toddlers.

Complaints flew on our neighborhood listserv, and everybody had a suggestion which ranged from it’s no big deal to who should have planned this. Our Berkeley Place Association president, Amy Allibon, got a lot of undeserved flack. She met with a police officer newly assigned to traffic control at such events. He assured her, “We got this” and, she implies, was a bit misogynistic in his attitude. She surmises he learned a lesson today.

Several good suggestions came out of today’s pandemonium, and I’m sure they will be addressed in coming days as we—and we hope the city and the zoo—plan ahead for summer half-price days and the dreaded spring break day in  2023. It did make an interesting day in which I got little done except reading emails.

A bit of history: The zoo opened in 1909 with one lion, two bear cubs, an alligator, a coyote, a peacock, and a few rabbits. The zoo now is home to 7,000 native and exotic animals, representing 542 species, and covers 64 acres. Active in worldwide conservation and education programs, the Fort Worth Zoo also offers classes and events members of the association and local children.

I’m all for supporting the zoo and encouraging everyone in Fort Worth to visit it. Time was when my kids, grandkids, and I made an annual all-day trip. We could walk from my house, and it was a highlight of the year for us. The grandkids, now all at least in their teens, are too busy these days, and I can’t do the required walking, so that’s another memory to treasure. I want to share that memory with other families, and I want them to have the joy of a day at the zoo. But I also want to feel safe in my neighborhood and able to go about my day without being blocked by traffic. I’m sure there’s an equitable solution, but it will take neighborhood association, zoo officials, and police working together.

The oxymoron of war.

 

In many nations tonight, people are outraged that Russian planes bombed a maternity hospital in Ukraine. One case made headlines—a young mother-to-be, in labor, who died, along with her baby. The cry is that bombing such a civilian facility violates the rules of war. This heartbreaking case is classified not as a casualty of war but as a violation of the rules.

The idea of rules of war has always struck me as an oxymoron. We’re not talking about a chess game here—we’re talking about deadly combat in which lives are brutally lost. Who sets the rules? And who says whether you follow them? According to Wikipedia, violations of the rules of war include intentionally killing civilians or intentionally killing prisoners of war, torture, taking hostages, unnecessarily destruction of civilian property, deception by perfidy, wartime sexual violence, pillaging, the conscription of children in the military, committing genocide or ethnic cleansing, the granting of no quarter despite surrender, and flouting the legal distinctions of proportionality and military necessity.”

Thos rules leave little leeway for what you can legally do in a war, but Mr. Putin seems to have violated most of them. Who is going to say, “Tsk, tsk! You know that’s against the rules.”? If you’re hell-bent on killing people and conquering another nation, why should you listen to rules? I’m sure authorities from the Nuremberg trials had a good sense of what to do and some success. I am less hopeful about Putin being brought to justice, and yet he is just as inhumane as the Nazi officers tried at Nuremberg.

Walter Cronkite, the late, great newsman who fought in WWII, once wrote, “War itself is, of course, a form of madness. It is hardly a civilized pursuit. It’s amazing how we spend so much time inventing devices to kill each other and so little time working on how we might achieve peace.”

One of the most poignant clips I’ve seen recently showed a young woman, dressed in outdoor gear, in an apartment clearly destroyed by bombs. The camera panned to show the extent of the damage, and it was horrific. But she sat, pulled protective blanket off a piano, and began to play an excruciatingly beautiful piece. The caption was something like, “One Last Time.”

We are horrified and yet helpless. We contribute to various welfare agencies—I sent money to the World Kitchen recently since Chef Jose Andres is feeding the thousands of refugees who stream across the Ukraine border into Poland. We pray, beseeching whatever god we pray to, to spare the Ukrainian people, recognize their courage, deliver them from evil. Our country supports them in every way possible, short of igniting WWIII, which no one, except perhaps Putin, wants.

And yet, we are helpless. Decisions are made by governments, and we can either support or condemn. My personal take is that it is a time for us to pull together, to condemn aggression and to support the best efforts of our president and his advisors, both in and out of Congress and the military. Others choose to disagree and blame him for weakness, for the high price of gasoline, for everything but the weather—and they may get around to that too. Many who carp and complain can’t seem to get beyond themselves to see that we are all in this boat together—what happens to democracy in Ukraine will eventually make its way to our shores. Indeed, we had a close call last November in the election and ever since while we combat the “Big Lie.”

To me, it’s foolhardy to grieve for what’s happening in Ukraine but take comfort in the fact that wars will always be fought on foreign soil, never make their way to the U.S. I wish I could feel confident about that. I may be in my twilight years, but I have grandchildren to whom I leave the world—and I want it t be a world of democracy.

Meantime, life does go on. Friend Subie took Jordan and me to the Fort Worth Club today for a pre-birthday lunch for Jordan. I couldn’t help myself. I sat there in elegant surroundings, eating a sophisticated lunch, enjoying the company of two of my favoirte people, and thought, “People are dying. They are hiding in subway stations and basements. They are dying in maternity hospitals.” I remembered seeing an old woman in Ukraine who said they just want us to pray for them, and then they want us to go on and enjoy life. I did what she said—it was a terrific, happy lunch, full of laughter. But always, these days, there’s that little cloud hanging over us. Or maybe it’s a big cloud.

A staycation day

 

How I spent my staycation day

In his column this morning, New York Times food editor Sam Sifton wrote that everyone needs a day away in these troubled times. We are in the third year of the pandemic and the third week of Russia’s brutal, bloody invasion of Ukraine. Be kind to yourself. Take a day to lie on the couch (notice I said lie, not lay) and read a book.

For me, it was a lazy day to begin with because we got a late start on it, due to daylight savings, which I welcome wholeheartedly. I know a lot of people moan and groan, but I love sleeping a bit later in the morning, and I love the long, light evenings when we can sit outside, barring mosquitoes, until eight or nine. Some people claim they’d be happy if the government would just choose one or the other, but I would be devastated if they chose central time. All those dark depressing days when it gets dark before supper.

On my agenda today was—not much. Virtual church, check my email, that’s about it. Christian is cooking chicken piccata, and my only responsibility is green beans. I’m trying a new, easy cook method I read about—toss with olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper and bake at 325 for 25 minutes. Supposed to come out crisp as French fries. I’ll let you know. (They weren’t crisp, and Jordan had a texture problem; I thought they were okay but nothing to write home about.)

So I spent much of the day reading Bitter Roots by Ellen Cosby, the latest in her mysteries set in the wine country of northern Virginia. It is hands down the most expensive Kindle book I’ve ever read. I guess the publisher was counting on avid readers like me to throw budget to the wind. I am savoring every word at that price and hoping it ends being worth the cost. I have never been comfortable reading in a prone position, so I read sitting at my desk, with the text on my screen. My place of comfort.

Tonight I did have an inspiration for getting my novel out of the corner I’d written myself into, but again I could not get my computer to hold a WiFi connection. Last night I gave up and went to bed, but I really wanted to get this scene down tonight. A hard boot seems to have done it. I couldn’t even contact ATT technical service because I had no service. Fingers crossed please that this connection lasts. But I really need to call AT&T, a conversation I dread. It’s never their fault, and the fix will cost you bigtime.

A meme I saw today that hit home with me: someone wrote that their morning routine these days is, “Get up. Check on Zelensky. Make coffee.” That’s how I feel too. I am so afraid for that heroic man—he needs not to be a martyr but to continue to inspire and lead his countrymen. If Kyiv falls, as it looks like it will, I hope they get him out. I’m sure he won’t leave Ukraine, but he might be persuaded to leave Kyiv. The world is too much with us.

On a lighter note: I looked at the box of Ritz crackers I used last night for the crumb-topped fish and thought of my mom. Salmon croquettes was one of her favorite dishes and remains mine, but she always insisted you must use saltine crumbs and nothing else. These days I use Ritz—they are richer and much easier to crush. Make such good salmon patties. And for just a moment there, I wanted to make Mom my salmon patties. She’s been gone over thirty years, but you never get over missing. And wanting to call and say, “Mom, do you know how I’ve learned to cook salmon croquettes?”

Blessed Sunday everyone as we head into a new week. May it bring peace and health to the world—and joy to all of us. We need a bit of that.