Some thoughts on cooking and writing

 

Cooking and writing take up much of my day, and I enjoy both, am grateful to be able to fill my days as I do. But lately I’ve thought of some similarities between the two. If you follow my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate,” you know that I’m an old-fashioned cook, what is sometimes called a “scratch cook.” I cook on a hot plate and with a toaster oven because zoning regulations and space limitations don’t permit me to have a stovetop or an oven. But beyond those, the only gadgets in my kitchen are an electric can opener, an electric teakettle, and an electric corkscrew—all three invaluable. I do not have an instant pot, an air fryer (actually my toaster oven does, but I don’t use it), even a crockpot.

My neighbor, Mary, likes to tell me she can fix chicken soup in her instant pot in an hour or less, and it tastes as though it’s simmered all day. My reply is that I am home all day and can let a pot of soup simmer while I enjoy the aroma. And the learning curve of an instant pot intimidates me. My cooking is just never in that much of a hurry. I’m not unbearably righteous about this—I bless the Campbell^® Company because their soups make delicious casseroles and, if I baked cakes, I’d probably use a mix (but I don’t bake). Basically, I cook like my mom taught me some seventy years ago.

It occurs to me that I’m an old-fashioned storyteller too. Recently in a discussion of plotting, I read of a theory that suggested you write the first act or part of the mystery and then the fourth or last. Years ago, a friend advised that if I wanted to write mystery, I should write the end first. Both appalled me. I’m a linear storyteller—I begin at the beginning and write until I come to the end. At least once, I got two-thirds through a novel and wasn’t sure who the bad guy was. How could I have written the end?

Most readers know about plotters and pantsers. Plotters make detailed outlines, some as long as twenty pages or more, and then when they write, they fill in the spaces. It’s like having a detailed and accurate road map. Pantsers, however, write by the seat of their pants. I’m a pantser. When I start a new project, I have some idea—and some rough notes—about where it’s going. But I know even those rough notes will change as I go along and my characters surprise me. There’s a lot of intuitive writing in being a pantser. American novelist E. L. Doctorow famously said, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights.”

Today, there are all kinds of computer programs to aid writers. One that many swear by is Scrivener which allows you to write scenes out of order and store them. If your imagination conjures up a great scene, you write it, store it, and figure out where it goes later. Or Grammarly which corrects and critiques your writing as you go. Or Plotter which helps you arrange scenes and plots and promises to get you to the end of your manuscript quickly—almost sounds as though you can let these programs write the book for you. And I guess that’s what makes me nervous about them. That, and, as with the instant pot, the intimidating learning curve.

The writer’s bookshelf is often full of how-to books that suggest best-seller status if you follow their theories. One I hear a lot about lately is Save the Cat Writes a Novel, which prescribes fifteen plot points needed in a mystery. Or you could read Jane Cleland’s Mastering Plot Twists, Plot Pefect by Paula Munier, Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot by Jane Cleland and Hallie Ephron. The list is endless, and there is no one perfect formula. Seems to me the new writer needs to learn the basics, but it’s too easy to get lost studying the genre and never get around to writing the book.

So, just for me, the old-fashioned way works. Best advice for writers: “Putt your butt in the chair and write.” I try to write a thousand words at a time and, ideally, do that every day. Some days it works, some days it doesn’t.

Cooking and writing, both difficult arts to master, and I don’t put myself forward as having mastered either one. But I bumble along in my old-fashioned, simplistic way, seeing only what the headlights show me. It’s a nice way to spend the day. And now? I need to look at some recipes!

Golf, A moving moment, a buffet, and a sort of lazy Sunday

 

Jordan and Jacob at the golf tournament

This weekend has been the Charles Schwab International PGA Golf Tournament at Colonial Country Club, as I mentioned before, and my family have been missing in action all weekend. Tonight, it’s over, the winner declared—a name I’ve never heard, but hey! I’m not much of a golf fan except to cheer for my Jacob. So congratulations to Sam Burns, whoever he may be. Good job well done.

One of Jordan's crazy angled
pictures at the 
tournament

I meantime stayed home, went to church remotely, and entertained friends for supper. I doubt many in the audience were moved to tears at the NRA convention when trump read off the names of the victims of the Uvalde shooting—and then ended his talk with a totally inappropriate dance. But I was teary this morning when one of the ministers at my church read the names of those children just before the ministerial prayer. Made me think that context matters a whole lot. Senior minister Russ Peterman has been preaching on women of the Bible, and today his text was the story of the Canaanite woman who begged Jesus to heal her daughter who was possessed by a demon. It was a good segue into the events of the past week and the mothers who stood outside Robb Elementary begging law enforcement to go in and save their children. The law enforcement mistakes made that day are appalling and heart-wrenching. Russ ended the sermon with a plea that no mother ever again has to beg for her child’s life.

There was a thread on Facebook this week about a topic that comes up every so often: if churches get into politics, they should be taxed. I have long said it would be hard to draw the line between political churches and those that are apolitic. This week I went beyond that to suggest that some topics are too easily labeled political when, in truth, they are moral issues. And gun control, to me, is a moral issue. I sense that Russ will take a hard line on moral issues in the Sundays to come, and I am grateful.

Switching gears: for years, Betty Boles and I went to dinner every Wednesday night. In recent years, we included Jean Walbridge. But the custom had begun to fall apart when pandemic delivered the coup de gras. Jean and I were virtually quarantined in our own homes, but we felt safe because we had little exposure; she was one of the few people I saw during the height of pandemic. Betty and her husband, on the other hand, continued to go to the restaurant they owned—where none of the staff were vaccinated or wore masks. Since the threat has eased, I’ve seen Betty a few times, but our lives have changed, and it’s not always easy to pick up an old relationship.

Tonight I cooked supper for Betty and Jean, a sort of tribute to old times. Remembering that Betty liked smoked salmon, I fixed Jamie Oliver’s smoked salmon and potato salad—a showy dish if I do say so. I served it with salt and vinegar cucumbers—an experiment I undertook because I like to keep marinated cucumbers in the fridge in summer. And a tossed green salad and baguette slices. Served buffet style. It made a lovely display, and thanks to Jean for a good photo. We had a good time playing catch-up, but as soon as she finished her supper, Betty was up and on her way home to check on her husband.

My  buffet tonight

Other than that, it was a nice lazy day—reading a book for an online discussion that begins tomorrow, a few household chores (I don’t do many of those these days), a nice nap. Last night my neighbor Greg talked about how good it is not to have any obligations. He said we’re not rich, but we’re not poor, we can pay our bills and live comfortably—how lucky are we! And it’s true. I feel truly blessed, but as some have said this week, I also feel some survivor’s guilt.  Thoughts and prayers are not enough—that’s become almost a hackneyed joke—but I work daily to think what I can do besides donating when and where I can and voicing my opinions on social media. As Oprah said in a recent essay, “Doing nothing is not an option.”

So this week, try to think of one thing you can do to save our democracy from religious zealots who have transformed the Christian message into something sinister, one thing beyond thoughts and prayers and donations. There’s a challenge for you. Have a great week.

A strange weekend

A spatch-cocked chicken with vegetables
The vegetables cook in chicken grease and are delectable

North Texas was at its absolute best tonight. A lovely evening, with just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away and make you forget the temperature was in the high ‘80s. The breeze ruffled the trees, the garden is beginning to grow, the pentas are showing first blooms. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie Smith came for happy hour, and we all forgot about itme—spent two hours having such a good visit.

Greg once was my lawn and garden guru, and he gave me hints tonight—like deadhead the coleus and mow those ornamental grasses that aren’t at all ornamental. We talked of kids and grandkids and college and fear, of schoolrooms (Jaimie is a retired teacher and was consulting in a small-town district this week—a hard week, she said). We talked of aging, though they are almost a generation younger than me, and we talked of dogs and cats because we are all animal lovers. I relish evenings like this. I gave them crab canapes from the freezer.

Usually I cook a lot on weekends, but this has been a strange weekend. The Charles Schwab Invitational PGA tournament is in town at Colonial Country Club—our end of town. Jordan and Christian and Jacob have been there all day for three or four days, so I filled my social calendar with others. Jordan was home Thursday, and on Friday Jean came to eat chicken salad and fresh green beans with me.

I had cooked a terrific sheet pan chicken for the family Thursday night. I am in love with this recipe. I thought I had written about it on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, but tonight I couldn’t find it, so it will be up online Thursday this coming week. But let me just say that I am a huge fan of sweet onion sauteed—in butter, in chicken drippings, in whatever. I’d probably love them cooked in water. Watch for that recipe because it’s too good to miss.

Last night I made chicken salad out of what was left of the spatch-cocked chicken. It was traditional, simple chicken salad—chicken, green onions, celery, salt and pepper, lemon juice, and mayonnaise. Jean enjoyed it, and I have to say it was delicious. I am not a fan of grapes and nuts in chicken salad. And there’s just enough left for me to have some tonight.

I am trying hard to blog about something other than the Uvalde massacre—and that last word fits what it is. That tragedy has occupied my thoughts this past week, and it’s hard for me to think beyond all the things I want to say. I am both grieved and furious, but I figure I can’t wear readers out with that. I know my own anger—at the needless loss of life, the law enforcement failure, the doublespeak of Governor Abbott will not go away soon, nor do I want it to. I want to keep my anger up—and yours—and that of all reasonable people of voting age, because I desperately want the Democratic Party to score a lot of victories in the mid-terms. Conventional wisdom is that Republicans will triumph—in light of the abortion wars and the Uvalde school shooting, it’s time to throw conventional wisdom to the winds.

Meantime, here are a couple of literary diversions. I guess this is still political, but it’s such a delicious story. In a collaboration between author Margaret Atwood and Penguin Randon House publishers, there is now a flameproof copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. A wonderful picture shows Atwood aiming a flame thrower at the book which remains untouched. So much for the rabid book banners and book burners who infest our culture. The Handmaid’s Tale is set in a dystopian future where the seventeenth-century Puritanical restrictions on society pale in comparison. It is where we are headed with abortion bans, likely to be followed by bans on contraception, interracial marriage, trans marriage, etc. All those personal freedoms, gone.

On a somewhat lighter note, although murder is never a lighthearted subject: a romance novelist has been convicted of murdering her husband. The kicker? She wrote a column several years ago on “How to Murder Your Husband.” It’s a case of fiction becoming reality, but in her case, the dry run didn’t work out. Will the wacky world never cease to provide us with bizarre humor?

Peace to all. This is a difficult time, but I am still sure we will get through it, and democracy will triumph.

 

Of children and dogs

Anybody in Fort Worth recognize this good-looking fellow?

For me, another day of grief, watching as more news and more sadness comes out of Uvalde. I have friends who have turned off their TV and ignored the newspaper, because they find the news too stressful. I can’t do that—reading and sharing posts keeps my anger up, and I hope, yours too. If we’re going to fight for a decent society where kids are safe in the schoolroom, where what women do with their bodies is between the woman and her doctor, and where everyone has equal opportunity to vote, we have to stay angry. And we have to be informed. We have to win this fight—the alternative is unthinkable.

Greg Abbott used the word “unimagineable” in his press conference, but as Beto and others have pointed out the tragedy in Uvalde was not beyond Abbott’s imagination. This is the sixth school shooting on his watch. He doesn’t have to imagine. He know the drill, at least as he perceives it—do nothing preventive but after the fact stress all that you are doing to investigate. Who needs investigation? A troubled kid got a gun he shouldn’t have had, and now he’s dead and can’t tell us more.

Today we learned that law enforcement stood outside the school for forty or fifty minutes, while parents urged them to go in. Standard procedure since Columbine is to go in immediately. One father, who lost his daughter, tried to get an unarmed citizen group to rush the building. Meantime, children were dying inside. I also heard the police got their own kids out first. There is much to be investigated about the reaction to the shootingand much to be learned, but that’s not what Abbott was talking about. And we must not let it fade away as other mass shootings have. Make this the last one. And as Beto said, now is the time to do that.

Do not tell me Chicago has more violent gun deaths. That’s apples and oranges. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, and I know about inner city violence. Have you heard of one school shooting in that city? Most of the gun deaths are gang rivalries, with, unfortunately, children too often caught in the crossfire.

Do not tell me that gun control laws don’t work, there will always be bad guys, and they will always get guns. That’s a cop-out for politicians so they can continue to collect NRA funds. Gun control doesn’t work in the U.S. because there are no consistent laws and there is lackluster enforcement. Texas has perhaps the loosest gun laws of any state and one of the highest number of mass shootings (plus other gun deaths). Coincidence? I hardly think so. How can an eighteen-year-old who can’t yet vote or drink legally, walk into a store and purchase two assault rifles and God knows how many rounds of ammunition. Senator Cornyn brought up another interesting opoint today: where did he get the money?

I challenge Greg Abbott to study what was done after mass shootings in Australia, the UK , New Zealand. I also challenge him to go talk personally, one on one, with the parents who lost children at Robb Elementary. Not a press conference where he is buffered by politicians, like the loud mayor of Uvalde who was out of line in his public attack on Beto O’Rourke at the presser.

I am indignant.

As if that were not enough trauma for the day, I have spent much of the day worrying and writing beseeching posts about lost dogs. Today alone there has been notice of at least ten dogs wandering, looking for help and afraid to approach would-be rescuers. One, a gorgeous big fellow, lies on the front porch of an empty house, waiting for his people to come home. Speculation is that college students went home for the summer and left him behind.

People get on various internet sites and ask, “Anybody want this dog?” It makes me blood boil. My constant advice: if someone claims the dog as theirs, demand proof—photographs, an identifying physical characteristic, a letter from their vet. Watch how the dog responds to his supposed owner. In Fort Worth (and I think Texas) strays must be registered with the local animal control facility because that’s the first place people go to look for a lost pet. It is illegal to re-home a dog or cat within 24 hours. And, no, animal control facilities do not automatically euthanize these animals. The Fort Worth facility has a re-home rate of about 95%. There are people out there who acquire “pets” just to abandon or torture them. I’m told there are no organized dog-fight rings in the Fort Worth area, but there are “pick up” fights.

If  you want to re-home your dog, the same cautions apply. Do not just give him or her to someone who says, “How cute!” By taking a few precautions you may be saving your pet’s life. Sometimes circumstances make it impossible for devoted pet owners to keep their animals—death, illness, etc. But I hope people who are considering adopting dog remember that it is a lifetime commitment. I get really angry of people who tire of their dog or want a younger one or just don’t have time. You are that dog’s only family, and he or she trusts you.

Yeah, I harbor a lot of anger at the world tonight. Some shrug and say, “That’s the way it is.” I say, “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Still reeling from the horror in Uvalde

 

I am not a native Texan. I cannot, like many of my friends, claim roots that go back generations (they often let me know about it). But I have lived in this state for fifty-seven years. In Texas, I raised my four children, built a career based on Texas history and literature, found a more-than-satisfactory life. I love this state. Tonight, I grieve for it and I am angry—indeed, furious.

I watched Greg Abbott’s presser today and was mildly surprised but overall appalled. It was all about after-the-fact, what we are doing to help families and the community of Uvalde heal, when truly it is much too soon to even talk about healing. The grief is too raw. I did think, briefly, that both Abbott and Dan Patrick showed some real emotion, but they soon turned it aside to recite the same old stuff. Abbott read lists of agencies involved in the investigation and in caring for survivors. The time frame of the attack was detailed, the fact that all the dead have been identified and their families notified seemed a point of pride. I heard the word “prevent” exactly once. When questions came, Abbott stressed the seven laws he has passed to strengthen mental health in this state.

Not a word about the nineteen laws the last legislature passed and Abbot gleefully signed that loosened restrictions on gun ownership. Not a word about the way shooting deaths have since skyrocketed. Not a word about the six school shootings and other mass shootings in the state that preceded this one. Abbott stuck to the playbook he’s used after every shooting: “This is not a time to politicize.” It makes great cover if you take it at face value.

Beto O’Rourke may have done himself no favors by interrupting and accusing the governor—Republicans will jump all over the incident, and I believe it was the mayor of Uvalde who disgraced himself, though he may not yet recognize it, by loudly calling Beto, “a sick son of a bitch.” But Beto spoke the truth: it will happen again, because Abbott is willing to look anywhere but at gun ownership—specifically automatic assault weapons. After every shooting, we have had the same pattern—Abbott calls a conference, makes a lot of noise, and does nothing meaningful.

When Beto was interviewed after his interruption, the passion he felt about these deaths was so palpable it was in stark contrast to the controlled statements inside the civic center (or was it the high school?). I for one cheer him for making his voice heard, for striking out against “one more time.” He’s right: unless something drastic is done, it will happen again in Texas, one of the states with the laxest gun laws and the highest number of gun deaths. I have five grandchildren still in public schools in this state, and I fear for their safety every day. Beto pointed out that Abbott called this tragedy unimaginable, but it really is not because we’ve seen it happen six times already. It is far too easy to imagine it happening all over again.

What can we do? Does it do any good to write to Ted Cruz? Probably not. To the governor? Probably not. I am not a fan of John Cornyn, but I will give him credit for cancelling his scheduled appearance at the NRA celebration in Houston this weekend—Abbott will supposedly still appear, along with trump who has not uttered one word about the shooting. What an appallingly bad case of timing. We can send donations to help with funerals; we can, as one of my neighbors suggested, donate blood which is apparently needed in the Uvalde hospitals. We can make our voices heard. And we must vote!

I wish there was better news tonight, something happy to write about. But it will take a while, a long while.

Anger must surpass grief

 

     

That old cliché, “’Twas a dark and stormy night,” applies tonight. It is depressingly dark early, and I hear distant thunder. Sophie refuses to leave my side. We need the rain so badly that I would welcome a good storm, if I could add certain conditions: no hail, no tornadoes, just rain—preferably steady and not too heavy. As it is I fear it will once again pass over. I think tonight of the people of southern Ontario where a terrific storm swept across the land, moving from Toronto to Ottawa, where it flattened many old, sturdy hardwood trees. One forester said Ottawa’s tree canopy was forever changed. Some used the term derecho, so I’ll add that to my conditions, no derecho.

The dark night seems to reflect the national mood tonight. We are once again grieving a mass shooting, this another horrific targeting of young children. What kind of a madman shoots innocent young children? We will never know for sure because the shooter at Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, was killed on the spot. But for many of us, the images of Sandy Hook have come roaring back with unbelievable tenacity.

President Biden spoke for many of us tonight in his brief words from the White House. At first, his grief rendered him almost speechless, but then grief turned to anger as he lashed out at the fact that we are the only country to suffer such mass shootings. Other countries have angry people, mentally disturbed people, but they do not have mass shootings. It is of course because we have gun control that is ineffective and almost non-existent. The president called for lawmakers to get a backbone and do what we all know needs to be done.

I can add nothing to the words that are flying across the internet tonight. Except to say that many of our gun aficionados on Facebook are downright scary people. They range from the woman who told me her husband needs an assault rifle to hunt the wild hogs that infest much of the South and Southwest to those who told me their guns are protection: if the Russians attack, they are ready. I can almost understand the wild hog argument—my brother has a ranch, and the hogs are so destructive as to be beyond description. They are also tough and numerous—if you hunt with a rifle, you get one at a time. If you hunt with an assault weapon, your stats are better—and that matters to ranchers whose livelihood is threatened; many of whom hunt almost nightly as a means of self-preservation. The flaw in that argument is that if assault weapons are legal for a small group of people, they will inevitably work their way into the hands of those who should not have them.

The self-protection people are more scary. They truly believe they could stand off a Russian invasion, completely overlooking the selfish patriotism, long years of organized training and preparation that have gone into Ukraine’s ability to counter the Russian invasion. Some believe that their guns are protection against their own government. And too many speak of the coming civil war. These folks always overlook the part of the Second Amendment that calls for an organized militia. In fact, they overlook the entire working of the amendment, bending it to their will and refusing to see the difference between weapons in the eighteenth century and today.

Gun folks never mention the mass shootings but they talk about all the illegal criminals Biden is letting in (actually he is under court order to turn immigrants away and most aren’t criminals, but that’s another topic for another day). They claim only criminals will have guns. Their arguments are almost desperate, and often semi-literate. They scare me. And they are rude. I have been criticized, insulted, dismissed as both naïve and an idiot by people who have no rational answers. If you question their statements or logic, they shut down and don’t answer.

So my reluctant conclusion is that logic will do not good. Neither will grief nor appeals to their better selves. We need anger, active anger on the part of all of us. And we need new legislators and a new SCOTUS.

The town of Uvalde, the state of Texas, and the whole country grieve tonight. I cannot imagine the families who sent their children off to school this morning, only to learn that they’ll never see them again. My heart breaks. But we must move on to the anger part. This is a call to arms. We’ve had those calls before—too many of them. What is it going to take to break this pattern? (Note: the NRA is meeting this week in Hoston; trump and Abbott will speak.)

And on a good note for the night: we are getting a nice soaking rain. It didn’t last long enough, but it was lovely while it did. One big clap of thunder sent Sophie scurring to her hidey hole between the couch and the coffee table—she thinks she is invisible when she’s there.

My food world crashes . . .

 

A dairy-free meal
Eggs scrambled with smoked salmon, tomato, and green onion
Stuffed zucchini, without the usual cheddar.

Several years ago, I was diagnosed with lactose intolerance, and I dutifully watched my diet and took lots of Lactaid. I didn’t even eat any cottage cheese for a long time, and it’s my standard breakfast. But gradually, the symptoms went away, I began to forget the Lactaid, and I had no problems, even though they say the intolerance is a lifetime sentence.

But several weeks ago, it came crashing back. After several attempts to kind of cheat the system, I have finally had to recognize that I cannot eat much dairy, even with Lactaid. It’s simply not worth it, though I won’t detail the symptoms for you—as Jordan would say, too much information.

Until you looked at it from the intolerance point of view, you don’t realize how much dairy is in our daily diet. Cheese is out, and if you can make a casserole without cheese, I’d like to know about it. Most creamy salad dressings are out. Ice cream, cream in your coffee, butter on your toast (I have always loved butter, to the extent that my kids used to say, “Have a little cracker with your butter, Mom”). Some dairy products have less lactose than others—butter for instance is low, as is cheese and yogurt. And the substitute milks—soy-based, almond-based, etc.—aren’t bad, and neither are some bands of plant-based butter substitutes--nothing will ever really substitute, but Earth Balance is better than dry toast. Don’t mention plant-based cheese—I can’t go there. What’s astounding is that lactose lurks everywhere—bread, breakfast cereals, processed meats, chips, ready meals, most snacks (I had to give up my beloved Cheez-its).

One day recently I watched Jordan empty my refrigerator, and I nearly cried—lots of good cheeses, cottage cheese, sour cream, yogurt, butter. One bright spot: contrary to what many believe, mayonnaise is lactose-free (eggs and oil, no dairy), so I can still have tuna, chicken, and egg salads. Some non-dairy foods are still not good for irritated intestines—such as beans, pasta, and rice. Nuts, seeds, some vegetables. On the other hand, fermented foods are good —surprise! Fortunately, I really like sauerkraut. Can’t quite do kimchi, however.

Long story short my appalling collection of recipes is pretty much on hold, and I am cooking in new ways—lots of proteins, especially fish; green salads. Happy hour finds me at a loss, and so does that snack hour at eleven at night—oh well, you’re not supposed to eat that close to bedtime anyway. I’ll appreciate any good recipes, advice, etc.

One of the things I discovered that I can eat and now love is polverones—those Mexican sugar cookies. My neighbor, Pru, brought me some, and they made a perfect late-night snack. Also good for breakfast.

Restaurants are a problem—you can’t be sure what has dairy and what doesn’t. . Recently we had dinner at HG Sply. I worried beforehand—but I had a piece of salmon, sweet potato hash, and a grilled avocado half. With chimichurri sauce. Superb!          

Tonight I had dinner with friends at a new, upscale seafood and steak restaurant striving for a New Orleans vibe. The thing to me was that it was in the space where my Jamie waited tables all through college, where we had his rehearsal dinner, where we felt completely at home. The space has been completely renovated a couple of times since—now it bears little resemblance to the café I knew, but it is bright and open and clean feeling. I had two things that I like a lot—bone marrow (it had blue cheese on it which would have been good, but I scraped it off—still delicious) and crab cakes (I ignored the sauce and asked for lemon). So eating in a restaurant is possible, if you’re careful. It was a pleasant evening, good to be out and with good friends. And proof that I’m not going to let this restricted diet hamper my life.

Still, I’d love a bowl of cottage cheese along about now.

There really is nothing new on earth

 

National Portrait Gallery

Did you know that in 1933 a group of financiers and fascists attempted overthrow Franklin D. Roosevelt’s presidency and stop the New Deal? The coup leaders thought Mussolini and Hitler offered governments that America should emulate. Militias sprang up in the country—following the example of Mussolini’s Blackshirts and Hitler’s Brownshirts, these groups of conservative veterans called themselves Gray Shirts, Silver Shirts, Khaki Shirts, depending on the city of their origin.

Retired US Marine Corps Maj Gen Smedley Darlington Butler was recruited to lead an army of veterans, funded by the American Liberty League, whose membership included such Wall Street figures as JP Morgan, Jr, Irénée du Pont, Robert Sterling Clark of the Singer sewing machine fortune, and the chief executives of General Motors, Birds Eye, and General Foods. Instead, he reported the plan to the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover, who reported it to FDR. Some critics suggested it was a hoax, insisting that there was a great gap between contemplation and execution, but others claimed that if Butler had not been such a loyal patriot, the coup might well have succeeded—and American history would have been dramatically different.

Then of course there was Watergate in 1972, another time when the country was deeply divided, then over Vietnam. President Richard Nixon, anticipating a hard-fought battle for re-election, sanctioned members of his Committee to Re-Elect the President to break into Democratic headquarters in D.C., steal top-secret documents, and bug the phones. After two break-ins (the phone bugs didn’t work at first), Nixon was re-elected, defeating Democrat George McGovern in a landslide. Nixon gave hush money to the burglars and tried to get the CIA to block the FBI investigation of the break-in. Before a grand jury, several of Nixon’s aides testified to his crimes and revealed that Nixon had taped every conversation in the Oval Office. Special investigator Archibold Cox demanded the tapes, and the Supreme Court ordered Nixon to release then. He stalled. The House Judiciary Committee voted to impeach Nixon for obstruction of justice, abuse of power, criminal cover-up, nd several violations of the Constitution.

Nixon resigned and was pardoned by President Gerald Ford, but his attorney general and several high-power aides went to prison. General Alexander Haig, then White House Chief of Staff, is credited with persuading Nixon to resign and was apparently the one who held the government together in the last chaotic days before Nixon left office.

So Trump wasn’t even making up his own script. He had a playbook to follow with his aborted coup. The country survived two major acts of treachery, which encourages me to think it will survive again as a democracy for all people. And in the Watergate case, some people even went to prison--that could happen again too!

And a sort of unrelated illustration of history repeating itself: our minister, Russ Peterman, is preaching a series he calls “Fierce,” about women of the Bible. This morning he preached on the story of Ruth. Most of us know the Ruth, a Moabite widow, insisted on following her Hebrew mother-in-law, Naomi, back to Bethlehem. It was a time when women had no rights—their lives were determined by men. That resonated with me today when men are trying to take women back to the past instead of forward to the future. But what really struck me was the Naomi feared for Ruth, a Moab, in Bethlehem, because she would be an outsider, and it was a time when prophets in Israel were trying to cleanse the population of outsiders, people who were different. Sound familiar today? Of course it does. That story ends well too—Ruth married again and is considered the great-grandmother of David (perhaps great-great?)

Maybe there are reasons I’m a cock-eyed optimist! History lesson for the day is over.

A braggadocios hodgepodge and some trivia

 

See that big smile? That belongs to the Player of the Year for the Paschal High School varsity golf team—and Jacob’s only a sophomore. We are all so proud of him! The bad part is Jordan didn’t tell me about this for two days—this morning I finally asked. Turns out she texted the whole rest of the family but forgot to come tell me. I’m sure Jacob wonders why I haven’t congratulated him.

And while I’m bragging, here’s Miss Skinny Sophie—finally over her bout with bronchitis, she got an overdue haircut, and if she didn’t lose the ten pounds I wanted, she looks at least five pounds thinner.

My computer kicks up pictures from the past each morning, and yesterday it was this one. Ten years ago, at a signing for my second published mystery, No Neighborhood for Old Women. (Maybe you know the much better-known title I riffed on!) The signing was at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Jordan was a master at arranging those signings every time a new mystery came out—three a couple of years. Peter, who then owned the Grill, advised the best time was when he opened in the morning and again when folks began to arrive for supper. We drew good-sized crowds, sold a respectable number of books, and had a whale of a good time. Folks could buy whatever they wanted to eat and drink, and many stayed to share a meal. Those days are gone --signings seem a little archaic now, Peter no longer owns the Grill, and public appearances are hard for me. Sigh. Nostalgia.

Want to help fight the narrow-minded banning of books? Skylark Bookshop in Columbia, Mo., has launched a Challenged/Banned Books subscription service that will send paperback copies of banned and challenged books to readers each month. Per the Columbia Tribune, the bookstore is offering six- and 12-month subscriptions, with six-month subscriptions costing $150 and 12-month subscriptions going for $275. The price includes tax, shipping and packaging, and Skylark Bookshop will donate 10% of all proceeds from these subscriptions to EyeSeeMe, a Black-owned bookstore in St. Louis, Mo., that provides free banned books to students and families.

The subscription service will kick off with Maia Kobabe's memoir, Gender Queer.

Every telemarketer in the country seems to have my number on his or her list—and they all call between two and four in the afternoon, the time when I try to get a nap. So tired of being jolted out of a good dream by my phone. I am of the generation though that remembers the TV program, “The Millionaire,” and I am always hopeful a phone call is good news. I guess he generally appeared in person, didn’t he?

It's a busy time of year for travel consultants and title company execs, as well as high school students. Upshot is that I’m eating what we call “dinner on my own” a lot of nights. Not always bad. Last night I had a loin lamb chop, English peas, and a potato. Tonight Jean is coming, and I may make succotash (who remembers that?) to serve on polenta, if the groceries get here in time. If not, it’s scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, tomatoes, and green onions. Spring is a good time of the year to cook—all those fresh vegetables. I’m sad, however, that I’ll get no more corn on the cob. My dentist has convinced me my front teeth are in danger of splitting—another wonderful benefit of aging!

Happy Friday, friends.

 

Cooking dinner all day long

 

It didn’t really take all day, but cooking Eggplant Parmesan took up much of my day. I had invited Teddy and Sue for dinner and promised to cook it because Teddy’s favorite food is apparently eggplant. So this morning, knowing I was between projects, I planned to spend the morning cooking. I read my emails, took a quick look at comments on Facebook, and was ready to roll.

When I cook what Jordan calls casserole dishes, the worst part to me is the chopping. So I did it in order of hardest to easiest—chopped and sauteed the onion. The recipe said for each thing, “In another skillet ….” How many skillets do they think I have? I cooked one thing, dumped it into a bowl, cooked the next, dumped it into the same bowl, and moved on. So I got to a point where I had onion and ground beef cooked and in the bowl. I added breadcrumbs, pecorino cheese, tomato sauce, egg—and then tackled the eggplant. Halved the two eggplants Sue had brought me and found, to my dismay, that both were—I don’t know—not right. Eggplant discolors quickly when cut, but these were discolored form the getgo. Teddy brought me two new ones.

It’s not easy to scoop the insides out of an eggplant half, but I did it, using the cross hatch method my girls have taught me for scooping out avocados. The recipe said to boil the diced eggplant, but my note on it said sauté, so I did. By early afternoon, I finally had four stuffed eggplant halves. I took a nap. One thing about this dish is the lovely presentation—so of course I forgot to take a picture.

We had a fine dinner, and they seemed to like the eggplant. And we had long discussions, ranging from relatives and friends to politics. Sue insists trump will be president in 2024 because Republicans will vote their pocketbooks. I insist that he may be indicted by then, and whether he is or not, enough Americans, even Republicans, have the good sense not to vote for him. His presidency was a disaster for everyone but the one percent—and those who are brainwashed by disinformation.

Those are the folks that worry me—the ones who believe every conspiracy theory that comes down the road. They still think Hilary Clinton was operating a pedophile ring out of a pizza parlor, Joe Biden is responsible for everything from supply chain problems to the shortage of baby formula, Democrats are replacing whites with people of color as a path to power (can you believe anyone believes that?). I am particularly angry with those who claim that Biden is senile—everything he has done and accomplished, from stopping the pandemic deaths to orchestrating international support for Ukraine, argues that he is a man in full command of an incredible mind. His style is certainly different from trump—he goes quietly along, often with his head slightly down, doing what he thinks is right and not bothering about ratings and the like. I have felt the sincerity of his words several times, most recently at the memorial to the victims of the Buffalo shooting.

I just don’t believe that Americans will vote again for the man who unleashed that much hate on America, a man who is now supporting Putin and criticizing US support for Ukraine—he never was able to think beyond the immediate moment to the consequences, in this case of Russia rolling over all of Europe. Yes, he has followers, but their numbers are not overwhelming when compared to the citizens of this country. And those Republican pocketbooks—really, how many will vote that way?

I didn’t start out to proselytize, but now I find I have backed myself into a corner, but it’s a corner I’m comfortable in: Vote blue at all levels. The future of this country, the future of women depends on it.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to rant. But politics engages so much of my mind these days. It’s either politics or cooking with me, unless you want to hear more about the writing process, which also fills my days.

This Old House

 

Scooby with baby Sophie

Saturday night when Jamie was here, we talked about curbside ordering from Central Market, and Jordan remarked that I had ordered cube steaks for the four of us and got eight steaks, which prompted a bit of nostalgia on Jame’s part. He remembered he liked the way I used to do them in steak fingers, floured and fried, and then douse them with lemon. So that’s what we had tonight, along with another old favorite: wilted lettuce.

My lettuce crop was a failure. Jordan and Christian think we waited too long to harvest; I think seeds were planted too close together and needed thinning some time ago. What we really needed was a much bigger place to plant, but my portable herb garden was full of green onions—still is, and I suppose we need to eat them. Last time I tried, yhey were still too tiny. There is, I’ve decided, a perfect time to harvest vegetables, too early or too late spell unsatisfactory, if not disaster. This frustrates me because when I lived in the house and was not hampered by mobility problems, I used to have good harvests every spring.

The salad tonight was good, made with store-bought leaf lettuce, which is a whole different thing from home grown. But it was better than nothing, and I was grateful for the variety in our salad menu. Want to do it? Fry some bacon, remove from pan. Pour some vinegar into the grease (remember: 2/3 oil to 1/3 acid) and pour over cut greens in salad bowl. Crumble bacon on top. Makes me think of my mom.

Jordan found out today that the new back door for the house is in and will be installed Saturday. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. The door has suffered from dog abuse. I think my Aussie, Scooby, was the first to paw at it to get in. Poor Scoob had been an abused backyard dog, turned out with several other dogs, food thrown at them, given no human companionship. He was confiscated, I guess by the Humane Society, and was three years old when I got him. He never got over some skittish traits, like flinching in you reached for his collar. But he was maybe the sweetest dog I’ve ever owned (Shh! Don’t tell Sophie, who is a bit more wrapped up in her own concerns!). Scoob spent his days lying by my desk (you can see where he wore the finish off the wood floor in the main house at the spot where my desk used to be). He spent his evenings sleeping right by my bedside—on the side of the bed where I slept. I absolutely adored him—he was beautiful besides—and grieved when he left us. I still miss him.

Back to the back door. When the man who helps us around the house comes to install it, he will also install the new flexible screen door on my French doors. The screens get a hard beating from dogs and people going in and out. Today they have huge rips, only partially covered by repair tape, and I notice fruit flies and even some bigger flies, so I am anxious to have the new screen up. I figure it has a life span of about a year, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay for being able to have the door open most of the year and for Sophie to come and go. I’m not so happy about June Bug, the Burton dog who is not sure of her house manners—oh, heck, she doesn’t care.

This year, 2022, marks the hundredth anniversary of our house, and Jordan is anxious to get it in shape so we can celebrate. I bought this house in 1992 (I think), lived in it until 2017 when I moved to the cottage, and Jordan, Christian, and Jacob moved into the house. It’s the longest I’ve ever lived in a house, even the one of my childhood.

The best picture of the house that is not
in a blizzard or Halloween.
Two years ago, for Jacob's birthday

Once a visiting author and her husband came to lunch. When I remarked that the house was built in 1922, she asked, “Have you lived in it ever since?” Before I could gather my wits to reply, her husband said, “She’s an author. She’s not good at math.”

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Food, nostalgia, a new word, and a book about Chicago--or is it about girls and women?

Not to brag, but I just had the best dinner! It’s been a day when Sophie and I were out here alone—no visitors, no human contact except by phone and computer. Jordan breezed in for two minutes, so frustrated with her busy business that she breezed right out again. But dinner made up for it. A piece of salmon filet with chimichurri sauce, a boiled potato with lots of plant-based butter, and a green salad. Chimichurri is my new favorite thing. When we went out to supper Saturday, I had salmon with chimichurri (no, I’ll not tire of it) and came home with a small container which goes a long way. I roasted the salmon with salt, pepper, and olive oil. And not too long in the oven—I love the glass door in my new toaster oven, because I could see the salmon lighten as it cooked.

This is a nostalgia day for me. Fifty-eight years ago, I married one Joel Alter. Some good came of it—four wonderful kids and a liking for Jewish food. Beyond that, it was pretty much a wash. From my point of view, we were happy for fifteen years, and then miserable for two after he went crazy. Were he still walking this earth, I’m sure he’d have a different tale to tell.

More significant now to me is that eleven years ago today, Megan, Colin, and I were in Edinburgh, the start of our wonderful week-long exploration of Scotland. It was a trip that will forever be one of my best memories. I’d love to go back to Scotland, but since that seems unlikely, I cling to these memories. The picture is Megan and me at Edinburgh Castle.

One more bit of nostalgia: I watched an interesting program tonight, an interview with Dawn Turner, author of Three Girls from Bronzeville: A Uniquely American Memoir of Race, Fate, and Sisterhood. Bronzeville, a neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side, was in my childhood a Black neighborhood. Growing up in Kenwood at 51^st Street, I knew 47^th Street was the dividing line, but I never heard the name Bronzeville. When I was very young my family attended St. James Methodist Church at 4611 S. Ellis, clearly in Bronzeville and not Kenwood. (Today the church is being converted into apartments and community work space—nice to see the very traditional limestone building being preserved.) The program tonight was interesting, but whereas Turner talked about the universality of her growing up experience (her best friend and her sister had much more difficult adulthoods than she, a respected and successful journalist), I wanted to hear specifics about those two adjacent neighborhoods. In my young years I thought 47^th Street was a gulf as wide as a moat, and I wanted to know how that affected her because I know how it affected me. She touched lightly on it but not in depth. Still, the book goes on my TBR list.

My new word for the day: hegemonic masculinity. (Okay, it’s two words.) It means a society dominated by men. I ran across it online today but thought it so appropriate when old white men (and one young white woman) are trying to tell women what to do with their bodies. Like the majority of Americans, I continue to be distressed about Justice Alito’s draft, with all the holes in its logic and support and the utter lack of medical knowledge or consideration. But I read an encouraging post today from Wendy Davis—remember her? Thirteen-hour filibuster in the Texas legislature against an anti-abortion bill which was later passed anyway. Davis has not given up the fight, and she wrote that there is a way to win if control goes to the states. I’m not sure I have this right, and now I can’t find the reference—but there is a way. It has to do with amending the state constitution so that the decision will be in the hands of voters at the ballot box, rather than the state legislature. It’s early days yet, but there is a movement to that effect in several states (Michigan for one, I believe) and we must be alert here in Texas for the first opportunity to work toward that goal. We’re fortunate to have Davis to guide us.

Monday, and a whole week ahead. So far I seem to be lazing through it. Hope it’s a good one for you.

Fun on the weekend

 

My blog has been quiet for a couple of nights, mostly because there didn’t seem to be much to say. I worked at my desk, but nothing seemed remarkable. Maybe I just had a springtime case of the blahs. Anyway, the Alter/Burtons had fun this weekend.

The picture above was taken Saturday night at HG Sply when Jamie came to visit (that’s Jamie leaning over my shoulder—Jacob, the picture taker, sort of cut half of himself off). Jamie lives in Frisco, but his work as sales manager for an international toy company takes him all over, especially to Los Angeles where he spends a lot of time (happy coincidence: his youngest daughter, Eden, is in school at UCLA). Upshot is Jamie doesn’t often have time to get to Fort Worth, so his visit is always a treat.

Dinner at HG Sply was a new treat for me. We ate on the patio, which was handicap accessible (it’s a long walk from the parking, so Jamie pushed me in the transport chair). Because of a funny quirk in my digestion, I am watching what I eat—so I happily watched myself eat salmon, sweet potato and grilled avocado half with chimichurri sauce. Wonderful meal! After dinner, we sat around, visited, laughed a lot, and had a good time.

Friday night, Jean and I planned to go to our favorite Japanese restaurant, Tokyo Café, but by the time we called, they were booked. So Jean got us take-out—she had a yakisoba noodles with tofu and vegetables (no tofu for me, thank you!). I ordered salmon crudo—I had scant idea what it would be except that it had salmon sashimi. It was delicious but next time I’ll probably just order sashimi.

Today, Jordan and Christian went to the Hidden Garden Tour in Fort Worth—all the gardens were in Crestwood, a lovely older neighborhood with beautiful trees and grand old homes. Despite of unseasonably high temperatures, they report a good time. I like the TCU skeleton.

So tonight, we’re all home, and I have fixed a cilantro/lime chicken salad. We’ll have a green salad with it. And I have a good book for the evening.

The week wasn’t that blah, really. I did a lot of work. Finding Florence went to beta readers, and I already have the first report back, so that’s tomorrow’s project. I wrote my May column for Lone Star Literary Life (if you don’t know that free, online weekly newsletter, you should look it up), I did an small editing job for a nonprofit here in Fort Worth, wrote a book review, and finished the recipe section for Finding Florence, despite the fact that the computer kept eating the recipes. Now, as another week looms, I have projects to look forward to—edits on the new mystery, a story/recipe to compose, and choices to make about my next project.

I close with a nostalgic picture of the Alters on the Fort Worth Zoo train—Jacob must have been no more than three or four, but I can’t imagine what accounts for the funny look on his face. A good memory.

Hope this is a good week for everyone—may the weather cool off in Texas.

Me, you, and our differences

 

Me and my children
I post this to demonstrate how different they are.
Each is their own person, 
and you cannot describe them adequately as Judy's kids

Tonight, a random thought struck me. I wasn’t going to blog—again, two nights in a row! Was I losing my touch? But it seemed not much was going on. Then there came this thought: my grandson is taking STAAR tests (or whatever tests a high school sophomore takes) tomorrow. He’s a great kid, smart as can be, but he isn’t particularly interested in academics, and what occurred to me was that those standardized tests might be a poor picture of his academic—and non-academic--achievements in life. (He is a star on the varsity golf team and a genuinely nice kid!).

Take that one step farther, and it leads to what I’ve always thought about standardized testing, though I have not investigated it. I think that mindset is part of the problem. Was it Ross Perot who made standardized testing mandatory and a requirement for participation in extracurricular activities? Anyway, fie on whoever did that. It forces teachers to teach to the test and not to the student, and it assumes all students are alike and progress at the same level. And just as the size and height of sixteen year-olds can vary wildly, so can their scholastic ability. Teachers lose the ability to wander from the prescribed curriculum and use their own creativity and experience in exciting students about learning.

Take that yet another step farther, and it points to a serious problem in our culture today—the lack of consideration, and respect for the individual. Human beings come in many color, sizes, abilities, interests, personalities—you name all the ways we can differ. Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost the respect for that. We expect everyone to measure up to (or fail) one standard of perfection. As far as I can tell right now, that standard is white, male, Christian, Republican.

Abortion is such a hot topic currently that I hate to even touch it, but perhaps nowhere else is this standardization more evident. The various states who either have already enacted strict laws (Texas, O My Texas!) or have trigger laws on the books make no exception for rape, incest, or medical emergency. Old white men in their wisdom assume that all pregnancies go along smoothly and result in happy babies. They refuse to consider ectopic pregnancies, which can kill a woman; deformed or dead embryos, which can kill a woman; any other of myriad medical emergencies that endanger both child and embryo. In their righteous authoritarianism, they are blind to the fact that almost all abortions are done in the first trimester; those done after that are almost always for compelling medical reasons. It’s the compelling medical reasons that have me reeling tonight. I cannot imagine letting a woman die of a complication of pregnancy that could easily be controlled medically because it is against the law. What kind of Orwellian world have we wandered into?

Now some states are even making spontaneous miscarriages a crime. What gives them the medical knowledge to do that? I read today of a woman who went to a doctor, not knowing she was pregnant, because she was cramping and bleeding. Turned out she had already miscarried, but she said the tone of the doctor changed dramatically when that fact was confirmed. Of course it did—he/she was afraid of being complicit in an abortion. Having once miscarried myself before I knew I was pregnant, I can fully sympathize with this young woman. Eventually her doctor concluded she really didn’t know, and all was well. But what about a less humane doctor?

My whole point here is less about abortion than it is about life. We have somehow lost respect for each human being as an individual. Think about fingerprints. No two of us have identical fingerprints—not even, I believe, identical twins. No two of us are alike, and we must stop treating people that way. We must re-learn the art of appreciating the individual, with all of his or her own glory. It goes beyond stereotyping or profiling. Such respect means really looking at, listening to each person as they tell their story.

May those who lead us stop thinking of people as herds of cattle (even they are not all alike) and start seeing a crowd of many individuals—in the US, in Ukraine, in Russia, anywhere there is oppression of groups or classes of people. Not in the US, you think? Guess again.