Texas is on fire—and so am I!

 

Here's the illustration for the post that nobody seemed to read.
Hope the picture isn't a jinx. I will not post a picture of my dying garden.

The wonderful herb garden I was so excited about has dried to dust, the pentas are shrinking instead of growing and nary a bloom on them (last year they were so gorgeous!), and the grass is brown. I’m sure it does not come as news to many of you that Texas is burning up. We’ve had days over a hundred degrees for a least two weeks now, and the forecast is over a hundred through the end of the month--no rain. The first three days this coming week are to be between 108-110. It’s brutal. And it’s taking its toll not only on our yards and gardens but on our dispositions and sense of well-being. It’s like being haunted all the time by a nameless, shapeless, invisible enemy.

I run two of those ceiling air conditioners—one in the living area and one in the bedroom—twenty-four hours a day, although in the early morning and late evening I can open the patio door for fresh air and freedom for Sophie.

In weather like this, all you can do is stay inside. So that’s what I did this weekend. Jordan and Christian visited friends at a lake house not far from here, and Jacob had a buddy spend the weekend. So, I was on my own. Had a welcome visit Friday from Sue and Teddy who are headed tomorrow for an intriguing far north Scotland resort hotel—so far north that it’s on an inlet from the North Sea. You may wonder about a resort in such rugged country, but it’s a place for hiking and maybe fishing, enjoying wonderful food, and lots of peace and quiet. I admit to a bit of jealousy—if I could go, I’d let everyone else hike, and I’d stay in the studio with a desk and write. Pictures of the interior of the hotel are captivating—imagine Scandinavian modern in a nineteenth-century stone manse. I admit I’m more than a wee bit jealous.

Saturday, Jaimie and Greg Smith came for happy hour—they live at the other end of the block, but the heat is so bad they drove from their house to my cottage! We had a good visit, caught up on each other’s doings—they had just been on an Alaskan cruise, another thing to make me jealous except they ate no salmon. Who goes to Alaska and doesn’t eat salmon? We ended, as we often do, talking politics, and it was a lively discussion but got us nowhere because we all agree, loudly and fervently. They are good neighbors and I treasure their friendship.

But most of all this weekend I wrote and researched like a mad fool—got the material I have for next month’s newsletter edited and ready to go, just waiting for final submissions; wrote my monthly column for the online newsletter Lone Star Literary Life (check it out every Saturday if you haven’t already) and wrote the first draft to a foreword of a forthcoming cookbook. Imagine that! Me, asked to write a foreword to a cookbook. I’m beyond flattered. And then I did a lot of research on Helen Corbitt. The next chapter is beginning to take shape in my mind, but the draft is still woefully short. And today, I wrote a thousand words on the next Irene novel, just because I miss being with my friends from that novel. For now, the next installment is titled Irene Goes to Texas but that's blah, and I hope to come up with something better. I am, however, ignoring the suggestion of Irene Does Texas. Bad connotation.

You may have noticed I didn’t blog. That’s because I’m a bit puzzled. Friday night I wrote what I hoped was an interesting post about the reprints of three of my historical novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. Twenty copies of each suddenly landed on my coffee table—and that’s where they still are tonight. I gave a synopsis of each book, hoping it would attract readers. Nada. Not a single like nor comment. Now I don’t mean to whine, but there are some who comment on almost every post, which makes me wonder if this one somehow didn’t make it. It shows up on my Facebook page, but maybe not yours. Here’s a link if you missed it: View from the Cottage: Where is my librarian? (judys-stew.blogspot.com)

Tonight, the Burtons are back home, and I fixed us a sheet-pan supper of King salmon, potatoes and onions. I slow cooked the salmon—twenty-two minutes at 285^o. Salmon was delicious; potatoes and onion not so much. Undercooked. Close to raw. And those sweet onions I ordered? They weren’t. A substitution. Still the salmon with Jordan’s great salad was enough to make us all satisfied. And there’s cold salmon for lunch tomorrow. Who cares about potato and onion?

Stay cool, my friends.