Preaching to the choir

 

The picture with this post is for the algorithms but also because it was such a pretty plate—slow roasted salmon, marinated cucumber and sweet onion, and fruit salad with lime, lime zest, and just a tiny bit of sugar. But it has nothing to do with the activist hat I have on tonight.

I got caught up today on a long anti-abortion thread, mostly because I am almost incapable of letting outright lies go unchallenged. This one was full of statements that there is never any medical reason for abortion, and many doctors say there is never a reason to kill the baby. These statements were followed by a long string of one-word posts: “Absolutely!” along with a few about murderers, and no abortions ever, and the like.

One rude gentleman offered to sell me swamp land, but I happened onto a woman who seemed sincere in her belief and a bit puzzled. What I discovered, exchanging messages with her, is that these are the folks who didn’t pay attention in high school biology. They seem to think doctors abort a perfect baby and stand there debating: “Should we kill this one or not?” Also they seem to think that all nine months this perfectly formed baby is in the womb. They have no idea about fetal development, fetal abnormalities, fetal death in utero, even complications that threaten the mother’s health. And I suspect they don’t want to know.

I am no medical expert, but for probably the first twenty years of my working life I worked it was in hospitals and medical schools. I am a doctor’s daughter, sister, ex-wife, aunt, and niece. I learned as they say just enough about medicine to be dangerous. But I know when someone says to me, “Many doctors say there is never a reason to kill a baby,” there aren’t many doctors and the person posting may have read that once, somewhere, on an anti-abortion post.

In another post on that site I explained that I am not pro-abortion. As an adoptive parent who could not produce babies, I think birth is a miracle. And I’m grateful that none of the girls in my family ever thought of abortion—how did they suddenly get so old they are beyond that stage? At any rate, I am not pro-abortion. I believe as many do that the decision is between a woman, her doctor, her partner, and perhaps the god of her faith.

But I am passionately opposed to Draconian laws passed by old white men with no medical knowledge that prevent pregnant women from getting adequate medical care. Today several plaintiffs are suing the State of Texas. Some were near death before being given medical care, and several have lasting effects that may prevent future successful pregnancies. You can read their heartbreaking stories here:  Women suing Texas over abortion bans give emotional testimony - ABC News (go.com)

I simply do not understand the reasoning behind making a woman carry a nonviable fetus to term at grave risk to herself. If you read the article, you will read of a woman whose fetus had encephaly (undeveloped skull and brain) but she was forced to carry the baby to term and watch it die in agony. How does that fit with the Christian principles that extremists espouse? Frankly, I’m horrified.

I also don’t understand how protestors can quote the sixth commandment— “Thou shall not kill”—but are willing to let a pregnant woman die. I suggested to one woman she read the Torah. Actually I have no idea if this is in the Torah or not, but I do know that Jewish law always placed the life of the mother first. The fetus comes into the world as Freud’s blank tablet, if you will, but the woman has a fully developed life, people who love her and whom she loves. Possibly she has other children who depend on her. She may make important contributions to society. She has her place in the world.There is not an equal equation there.

If there’s a glimmer of hope, this is it: education. Instead of confronting anti-abortionists, each of us somewhere along the line probably has a chance to educate. Maybe just a sentence or two, calmy delivered. I think we’re obligated to do that. It’s no longer good enough to say, “I didn’t want to be rude,” or “I don’t like confrontation.” We have been silent too long.

Rant over. Thanks for listening.

A milestone and some trivia

 

Would you believe I am still getting over pandemic? As I have written before, pandemic and quarantine made it so easy for me to stay home in the cottage and not take my mobility challenges out into the world. Oh, occasionally I have gone out to dinner with friends, but pretty much I invite people to the cottage for happy hour or supper. And I haven’t been to church since March 2020. I was a faithful virtual attendant, signing in on my computer almost every Sunday. But I missed the physical feeling of being in the sanctuary, (University Christian in Fort Worth is a beautiful sanctuary), being surrounded by music, being part of the community.

The Burtons also never got back into the habit of weekly church. My minister friend Renee tells me the church recognizes that having once broken the church habit, it is hard to resume. This spring Christian began to really agitate for going to church. The three Burtons went one Sunday, but I opted to stay home. Then this past week, I had four restaurant meals and somehow got a big boost to my confidence. So I said I’d like to go this Sunday. It was the last day of a five-sermon series Renee was preaching.

Christian and I went to church. What made it work is that he willingly pushed me in my transport chair. I think much of my hesitation was based on insecurity about walking with a walker—I can’t go far without getting breathless. Today, being in the transport chair was easy, and he agreed, proud that just the two of us handled it.

After church, several members came up to greet me, which made me feel really welcome. I asked one if she still lived out in the country, quite a drive from church, and she said she did. “It’s my little piece of heaven,” she said. I remember when the church organist, asked about the long hours she spends practicing at the organ, said, “It’s my happy spot.” My church friend had found her happy spot in the country. I realized that my happy spot is at my desk, not necessarily with my computer on, but at my desk where I am in charge of my world. I think—and hope—each of us has a happy spot.

It's Sunday night, and I am getting ready to dine alone. Going to marinate some cucumber (I am never again buying those tiny cucumbers—they taste different, and they go bad five minutes after  you buy them—I have heard that you should wrap cucumbers in paper towel to keep them from spoiling; some say to add a silver spoon—just sayin’.) I’ll have a leftover salmon patty and maybe a bit of blue cheese salad. A nice evening.

Trivia: I saw an ad today for mink eyelashes! No kidding! I thought of all the animal lovers (me included these days) who shun fur coats and wondered who is vain enough to want mink eyelashes. Maybe I misunderstood. No, they are all over the internet. A bit pricey, as much as $95. There is an internet warning that you are killing these cute little critters. Do you suppose vain women care?

And get ready: I read somewhere that stores are preparing to display their Halloween offerings. We’re sweltering in the midst of summer, school hasn’t even started yet, and merchants want us to think ahead to Halloween. I don’t guess so.

I saw a book title that I thought was funny—until I read the description. There’s apparently a short story titled, “Namaste Trump” which is the title story of a collection about broken lives in small towns. I guess that’s appropriate if trump supporters can see themselves clearly, which I seriously doubt. And then there is a book by that title designed for journaling and described as a gag gift for trump supporters. Wish we could see sales figures on that one. And finally there really is a MAGA journal titled An Enlightened Trump Meditation.

I have no words. I am going to go quietly and eat my supper. Y’all have a  good evening.

Older but no wiser

 

My almost disaster dinner.

Recently I saw a Snoopy cartoon that advised, “Don’t worry about getting older. You’ll still do dumb stuff. Only slower.” I must have felt obligated to prove it true last night while cooking supper. Jordan and I decided on salmon patties and a marinated bean salad. I had seen a “fancy” recipe for salmon patties but at Jordan’s request went with the old and plain way my mom did them. But one new trick I learned (hat tip to Mary Kay Hughes) is that they hold together better if you chill them before frying. So I used two small cans of salmon and made six patties. Put them on a plate in the fridge to chill. (Another tip, this from my mom: throw a handful of instant tapioca into meatloaf or salmon patties or anything you want to hold together—you’ll never know it’s there, but it works magic.)

The bean salad was already in the fridge “blending its flavors,” but I remembered I hadn’t put in the lime juice, so I got it out. And there I sat, bowl of salad in my hands, as I watched in awe as the plate with the patties sailed out of the fridge in a perfect arc and then curved downward to land upside down at my feet. I felt like I was watching something in slow motion and absolutely incapable of doing anything about it.

For a second, I tried for the three-second rule: it hasn’t been on the floor long enough. Jordan was indignant: “I will not eat off the floor, and I will not allow you to.” I knew she was right. If it had been bread or biscuits or something, I’d have been okay. But not uncooked patties. We shooed Sophie away—she seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and did not try to sneak a bite—and Jordan swept it up and threw it away. Jordan got two more cans of salmon out of the closet (my extended pantry), and I did it all over again. I guess, being my mother’s child, what bothered me most was the waste: I used four cans of salmon (it’s not cheap) to get five salmon patties. They were good though, and the bean salad was terrific.

About bean salad: my cooking hint for the day is substitute honey for sugar and cut way back on the amount. The recipe I followed called for two Tbsp each oil, vinegar, and sugar. Whoa! I used 1 tsp. honey, and it was just right. My three-bean salad recipe also calls for a bit of honey, and though I was skeptical, I have to say it’s great.

I demonstrated my age another way one day not long ago. My oldest son and his family—wife and two grandkids—were going to Gatlinburg, TN and Dollywood for a week. Don’t ask my why. Dollywood is not and never would be on my bucket list, though I admire Dolly a great deal. I have been to Gatlinburg years ago and remember it as crowded and touristy but with good crafts. I once bought  a dinner set of good, heavy crockery in Gatlinburg. It went to whoever in the family when I downsized.

In my old-fashioned idea of a family vacation, you get up ungodly early, jump into the car, eat a sweet roll for breakfast while traveling, and drive s far as you can until evening. So I thought I’d just check the “Find a Friend” function on my phone and see if they’d gotten an early start. They were at Houston International Airport—no driving for them! Maybe it’s because I don’t like to fly, but flying and family vacation is an oxymoron to me.

No summer trip for me. Having had my riotous birthday weekend, I am once again content in the cottage and welcoming friends for happy hour. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie came up tonight. I had invited them to walk up (about a long block uphill) but they admitted they drove because it’s so hot. I love it when they come for a drink because we always laugh a lot. And we did tonight, over everything from Jordan’s teenage stories (she was with us and shared them) to neighborhood gossip. Sophie loves it because Greg was one of her early loves—when she was a pup, he came once a week to mow our yard and visited with both Sophie and me. Jaimie often brings an appetizer—she’s the source of the good baked goat cheese recipe—but tonight I fixed pigs in a blanket, which ended up being my supper.

Christian is at a “guys only” birthday evening, Jordan has gone off to watch a movie, and I, happy and content, am going to read. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Helen Corbitt and what Texans ate

 

Helen Corbitt

Some of you may remember I’ve been off and on trying for three or four years to write a book about Helen Corbitt, legendary doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus. My effort didn’t work for a variety of reasons, one among them few people thought my idea was as interesting as I did (hat tip to Travis Snyder of Texas Tech Press who did like the idea). My thesis was and is that she came at an interesting time in the history of food in the US.

A native of upstate New York and a trained dietician, Corbitt came to Texas in 1940 to teach at the University of Texas at Austin. She was dismayed to find, as Prudence McIntosh wrote for Texas Monthly, “no artichokes, no fresh raspberries, no herbs except decorative parsley, only beef (chicken-fried, barbecued, or well done), potatoes (fried or mashed and topped with a glop of cream gravy), and wedges of iceberg with sweet orange dressing. Fruit salad meant canned pears or pineapple with a dollop of mayonnaise and a grating of cheddar cheese. Canned asparagus was a remarked-upon delicacy, as were Le Sueur canned peas.^”

She moved on to the Houston Country Club, then a brief stint at Joske’s department store, and next the Driskill Hotel in Austin. Stanley Marcus began offering her a generous position at Neiman’s long before1955, when she finally accepted.

Meanwhile it was an era when forces were encouraging women to get out of the kitchen, to shortcut cooking, use prepared food and modern appliances, free themselves from the drudgery of the apron. Food critic Poppy Cannon published The Can-Opener Cookbook in 1951; Peg Bracken followed with The I Hate to Cook Cookbook in 1960. During the fifties, manufacturers were busy finding new consumers for prepared food since the military no longer needed as many MREs, and appliance manufacturers came up with appliances that practically prepared the entire meal. Futurists predicted housewives would soon be able to put an entire meal on the table in less than fifteen minutes.

Corbitt’s advice to housewives, however, was “Get back in the kitchen.” (She actually saved at least one marriage with that advice.) She believed in fresh ingredients, tasteful presentation, and careful combination of flavors. That chicken bouillon that is still served in the Zodiac? It took hours of cooking. Her signature dish, marinated black-eyed peas (also called Texas caviar) marinated at least two days before service. There was no instant food in her repertoire. One of her battles in her effort to teach Texans how to eat was the “al dente war”—she believed overcooking sapped vegetables of their flavor and health benefits. Everything from green beans to asparagus should be crisp. In a way, her cooking, rich with butter and cream, paved the way for James Beard and Julia Child.

Corbitt was a feisty, red-haired Irish woman with a temper. Stories abound about her tenure at Neiman’s, her friendships with everyone from President  Lyndon B. Johnson and his Lady Bird to the Prince of Wales, her occasional bursts of temper and outspoken moments.

Corbitt’s legacy lives on in her five cookbooks, which are still in print. Yet today I doubt even Dallas residents, except those of my generation, recognize her name. In her retirement, she traveled and lectured all over the South and Southwest, but she had almost no television presence, as Beard and Child did, and her reputation, while not limited to Texas, was pretty much regional.

I still think her story is interesting, and her accomplishments deserving of wider attention. Hmmm. The books is not going to fly, but I have submitted an article to a historical magazine (that the fifties is historical still boggles my mind). And I’ll keep thinking of ways to tell Corbitt’s story. No, I don’t see a novel in it.

Want to try a recipe? Google Helen Corbitt’s marinated black-eyed peas. If recipes tell you to add a lot of vegetables, move on. Her recipes has peas and onions.

 

Food on my mind (when isn’t it?)

 

Texas caviar

Tonight I had dinner with Carol, Kathie, and Subie, longtime friends who celebrate birthdays together—Carol and I both have July birthdays. Carol chose Fixe for supper, a choice I was reluctant about. But I put on my good-girl manners, and away we went. It was delightful. Fixe is rightfully known for biscuits—crisp crust, heavenly soft on the inside, served with butter, honey, and strawberry preserves. Of course for the rest of the meal my hands felt slightly sticky from the honey, but it was worth it. I had deviled eggs—three eggs with a dab of trout roe, good but not great, and a “Little Gem” salad which was delicious. Plenty of supper for me, and I enjoyed every bite. Of course, the camaraderie with old friends made the meal special, and it was a pleasant evening.

As always I had some misgivings about logistics—afraid I would have to walk too far, etc. But it was smooth. Subie let us out at a ramp right by the restaurant door, and I felt that both coming and going I walked with comfort and self-confidence. A real boost to my ego, after a flub with the family on Sunday. A thoroughly enjoyable evening. With tonight and last weekend, I am convinced I must get out of the cottage more often, though as I write I hear the locusts singing their song of hot weather to come. Nonetheless, I can do it—and I must.

While food is on my mind, I read a list of foods that are trendy on TikTok, and I must admit as a foodie I was appalled. I am not a TikTok fan, so this was all a surprise to me, but it came on Kitchn, the daily foodie newsletter that is one of the highlights of my morning email. Today, it has an article about irresistible TikTok recipes. I won’t comment on all, but here are a few that caught my eye.

Cowboy butter: A mixture of butter, lemon, herbs, and spices melted together for an easy compound butter dipping sauce for steak, vegetables, or bread. It looked like all grease to me in the picture, but the article raved about it adding flavor to everything from steak to vegetables and bread. I can’t imagine dipping a good steak in something so taste-disguising, but maybe it’s worth it. I might try that one sometime.

Blueberry cookies: they are a stunning shade of purple, and much as I love blueberries and, as an alum and retiree I have emotions about TCU’s purple, I don’t think I can do purple cookies.

Kool-Aid pickles: I don’t care if the colors are refreshing and the taste is a combination of sweet and sour, I just can’t get past the Kool-Aid of my childhood. No, thanks.

Buffalo-ranch butter board: Let it be said, loud and clear, that I love butter, I adore it. My kids have been known to say, “Have a little cracker with your butter, Mom.” But I tried a butter board, and I just couldn’t do it. I cannot believe that adding hot sauce, ranch seasoning, and scallions is going to make it any better.

Sushi bake – if you like sushi, why in heaven’s name would you turn it into a rich, hearty casserole. The two—sushi and casserole—are poles apart, and never shall they meet. At least not in my kitchen.

Pasta chip for dipping: You cook pasta, like bow ties, drain, cover with oil, season with Parmesan, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, and bake until crisp and golden. Then use to dip in Rangoon sauce and other delicacies. Maybe healthier than chips? I don’t know. Color this one a maybe.

Cowboy caviar: okay this one is familiar, a spin-off on Helen Corbitt’s Texas caviar recipe. It just adds more things—and doesn’t have the black-eyed peas but instead has black beans, corn, bell peppers, etc. But the principle of marinated vegetables is the same. I just think Corbitt’s original recipe is better.

So there you have it—a lovely dinner, and a bunch of oddball recipes. If you really want to try any of them, I’m sure you can google them.

Bon appetit! No, that’s wrong. Too sophisticated! Y’all enjoy!

What did you accomplish today?

 

Cookbook cover for the algorithms,
and, yea, to push my book at bit.
It's old but still good.

I am definitely an inheritor of the Puritan work ethic. When I was young, I frequently spent the night at the home of one of my best friends. Her mom was the church secretary, which may have accounted for this memory. But I remember that she would wake us in the morning by singsonging, “God has made another new day/Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” Sixty-plus years later, I can still hear her voice, and I have a tendency at the end of the day to take stock, assess what I’ve accomplished. Some days it’s not encouraging.

Today I can report one big accomplishment: I had a new idea! You know the jokes about hot potatoes that are too hot to hold, so you toss them back and forth in your hands? That’s kind of how I am about this new idea. I don’t really know what it is, what to do with it, and so I am tossing it back and forth in my mind. I’ve been saying lately that I’m waiting for inspiration to strike, and I’ve had a couple of false starts. So, I’m not sure about this new idea, but it seems to have possibilities. No, I’m not telling what it is. I’m going to let it simmer in my brain. Hint: food imagery may give you a general idea.

Speaking of food, I got hooked on a website today that promised a list of things that are not good for you, particularly if you are elderly. I thought, okay, maybe twenty-five. I’ll read it and see how I do. And for the first twenty-five, I scored well—I think the only bad thing for me was hot dogs. I know they’re not good for you, and I don’t eat them often, but I do enjoy them. But the list went on forever—over 200 foods, so you know many of the things you eat every day were on the list. There were some surprises to me, and some cautions I won’t take too seriously—honey for sugar content, tuna for mercury, other canned fish like sardines for sodium. In many cases, whoever wrote this site (it came from Street Insider.com) was careful to balance the warnings with the advantages of some food. Sardines, for example, are high in protein and good fats.

I noticed some trends—if you don’t eat these foods every day, you’re probably okay. As the ancient Greeks tried to teach us, “Moderation in all things.” Another take-away: pesticides make many good-for-you foods a problem. Strawberries and tomatoes were on the list for that reason: their skins are so thin that pesticides penetrate into the meat inside. Leaf lettuce is also there, because it needs thorough washing to rid it of pesticides, dirt, and bacteria. I am as of now being fussier about buying organic vegetables. And third: prepared, pre-packed foods, from mixes to flavored chips to cake batter and icing, are a problem. I have long been an advocate of scratch cooking, so that didn’t bother me much.

Diet cola, American cheese slices, bacon, and commercial salad dressings are no surprise Do you know how easy it is to make salad dressings at home? But meat—just plain meat—is on the list because of the antibiotics and hormones given to livestock. Once again, an argument for careful shopping and organic products. For instance, I make it a point to buy free range chicken and organic eggs. Hot sauce—the spiciness can damage your intestines. Okay by me—I can’t eat spicy food. Spray cheese and pork rinds are no surprise—who eats those anyway? —but tortillas and frozen vegetables? Mass produced tortillas have too many chemicals including preservatives, so stick to homemade. Frozen vegetables can break down if kept too long in the freezer (I’m guilty, because who doesn’t want to always have a pack of green peas handy?).

I understand pre-packaged hamburgers should be on the list, but it also includes hamburgers. From what I read, that means fast-food burgers, but probably those wonderful burgers Christian makes us at home are okay. Again, there’s a boost for scratch cooking at home.

Want to check the list and see how you rate? Find it at Commonly Eaten Foods to Avoid for Your Health and Your Wallet | Investing Magazine (streetinsider.com)

Speaking of food, I did have one other accomplishment: I made myself a Reuben for lunch. I had badly overestimated my family’s appetite and bought way too much deli meat for Saturday night’s poor boy sandwiches. We had a lot of turkey, roast beef, and ham left over. I thought there was pastrami too but couldn’t find it. So, I made the sandwich with roast beef, provolone, kraut, and some of the homemade Thousand Island dressing in my fridge. Got to say, it was really good. Tomorrow I’ll think of something to do with some of the turkey—perhaps a turkey and blue cheese sandwich, one of the few good ideas I salvaged from a two-year college stint in small-town Iowa all those years ago.

So how was your day today?

 

Aftermath of a birthday

Mini carnations from a granddaughter.
She bought the vase in New Mexico.

My grown children like to poke fun at me for my participation on Facebook. I think they believe that I take any word from any source as gospel. My protests that I check out reliable sites, ignore the crazies, and try to be responsible about what I read and what I share fall on deaf ears. But the other point they cannot grasp is the friendships I have made on Facebook. Many many people that I have never and will never meet in person but whom I consider good friends and with whom I enjoy frequent exchanges.

That was brought home to me with this birthday. Colin, my oldest and perhaps the biggest skeptic, asked me how many birthday wishes I got on Facebook, and I’d say as of today it’s about 250. Most of them came on the birthday site that Facebook posts but today others have come in on a post Jordan put up and a few other ways. A good number of those came from members of the Guppies subchapter of Sister in Crime, my fellow sisters and misters in writing mysteries. Guppies are a wonderfully supportive group, and I have many acquaintances and a few good friends in the chapter. Then there were wishes from people from various times in my long life, like the children of some of my childhood friends, and people I knew when they were children, regular readers and commentators on my blog, people who share my social and political sympathies, and a couple who don’t but remain friends. It’s really a remarkably varied group, and to say I am flattered beyond words is an understatement. It’s been a lesson in

A glorious orchid from a young friend.

gratitude.

I think I mentioned on a Facebook post recently if not on this page that Colin dug out my lifetime statistics for Amazon book sales. Amazon has sold slightly over 99K books by me, though I must confess almost 9/10 of them are one title—Mattie, the first adult novel I wrote and one which won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America. For years I sold it on Amazon for ninety-nine cents, which accounts for the tremendous sales numbers. (Today a reprint edition is available from TwoDot, a subsidiary of Rowman & Littlefield publishers, and it’s a bit more than ninety-nine cents.) But that total figure does not count copies sold by publishers. Regardless, the thought that I have perhaps brought reading pleasure to that many people is a significant accomplishment for me. I have said before that it’s my core belief that we must leave the world a bit better than we found it, and so perhaps my books have done that. I am surprised and delighted. Best-selling authors might laugh at my figures, paltry compared to theirs, but for me, a low midlist author, those numbers represent accomplishment.

The two things—birthday greetings and book sales—may seem unrelated, but in my mind they go together. I have made friends, and I have given people reading pleasure. To me, that indicates a life well lived. I don’t mean that in a smug way at all but in a happy way. We all want to know that our lives have meant something.

Having taken stock like that doesn’t mean that I’m checking out. It’s just that eighty-five does seem, as Jordan kept telling me, some sort of milestone birthday and an appropriate time to take stock. So what I find is a life that has been enriched by so many people, so many friends, and moderate success at writing. Who could ask for more?

Flowers for my desk from a neighbor

Sometimes life is glorious and wonderful. Sometimes, though, it is mundane, and so tonight, after all the glorious food and good times of the weekend, I found myself improvising a shepherd’s pie out of the roast beef left over from poor boy sandwiches for a crowd Saturday night. And oh boy, did we have leftovers! Turkey salad, anyone?

To share a bit of my birthday joy, I’m posting pictures of the flowers I received.

What a weekend!

 

Brunch at Carshons'

The cottage is strangely quiet and empty. Sophie and I had long naps, and I know she is disappointed that all her favorite people disappeared. But such a great weekend we had with family, friends, fun, music, laughter, and maybe just a bit of wine … okay more than a bit.

The family met at Joe T.’s for dinner Friday night—some worried about the heat but we didn’t eat until eight o’clock, and between the fans and a nice breeze, it was a lovely night to sit on the patio. We came home, sat around the cottage, talking—the teenagers left us, of course—and about eleven-thirty I kicked them all out. Next day I learned that some of them stayed up until three, and Jordan and Jamie were up until four-thirty, listening to his guitar, talking, laughing.

This weekend was an eating marathon, as we went to all the kids’ favorite places. Saturday lunch found us at Carshon’s Deli, where the kids have been eating since they were infants. Mary accommodated twelve of us—grandson Kegan loves matzo ball soup, and Jamie ordered that too. For my kids, it’s mostly a chance to have food they never get anywhere else. I had lox and cream cheese but no bagel—toasted rye for me.

Saturday night, a very few close friends joined us for happy hour and then we had poor boy sandwiches and cake—lots of cake, several cakes, a plethora of cake. When Jamie went

Megam

home this morning he took with him leftover Joe T.’s plus one and a half cakes plus two German pancakes he stopped and got at Ol’ South. I was afraid he’d be on a sugar high by the time he got to Frisco. I admit that Saturday night I crashed, and I said to Jamie and Megan I thought I suddenly felt my age. But I think it was more that I hadn’t slept well the night before, it was a tiring if happy day, and we started happy hour at four. Even though I had tiny bits of wine, I think my glass was refilled too often.

After a good night’s sleep, I was fine this morning and ready for a trip to Ol’ South, next on the kids list. Once again twelve of us, and lots of memories.

In other things than food, Colin did some repairs around the house—pronounced my

Colin and Soiphie

automatic garbage can dead, and I have ordered a new one. He replaced the handle/lock mechanism on my bathroom door and promised to do a better job next time. To me, it works and doesn’t fall off the door, as it had been doing, so that was fine. He also did some computer work and paired my new phone to my watch. Christian had previously paired it to the telephone, so now I’m all set to go. Jamie, as always, did a lot for me, including feeding Sophie and giving her insulin shots. And Megan and I had long talks about everything, especially restaurants and food. I am so fortunate that my kids are my best friends—and have such a close relationship with each other. Sometimes I think Norman Rockefeller should come back to life and paint a picture of us. I guess the snaps from Joe T.’s and Carshon’s will have to do.

I am so grateful to Jordan who orchestrated the entire weekend, planning food, making lists,

Jordan and the cakes

putting out a happy hour spread followed by sandwich makings. She had everything under control and is the reason we all had such a good time. Christian helped so much and took lots of pictures on Saturday night. I am chagrined when I look at them, because I look bored, tired, whatever—I was none of those things. I enjoyed every minute. (I once had a dear friend who said it was too bad I didn’t look as good in pictures as I do in real life—I cling to that thought.) Megan worried at dinner Friday night that I was in the middle of the table, between two conversations and part of neither. She needn’t have worried. I like just seeing them all together.

And those teenagers. One friend, who has known my family forty years, said each of the teens stopped to speak to her. So grateful for their good manners. They are wildly different, but all good kids, and their joy at seeing each other was evident. Okay, they eventually looked bored at dinner Friday night, so

Jamie and Brandon, looking a bit cynical

Granddaughter Eden and
the flowers she brought me

much so we wanted to laugh. But they are a delight.

What can I say except that turning eighty-five (really? I can’t believe it!) is a breeze when you have all this happiness all around you.

Sophie’s going to have a hard time adjusting to the quiet in the cottage.

Happy Weekend

 

This is why I am not blogging this weekend.
Have a great one, everybody!

Confusion—and a new phone

 

I really miss the days of the littles.

Why is nothing ever simple? Christian found time today to go get me a new phone. Of course, he ran into trouble because he wasn’t listed on my account, but they finally agreed to deal with him since he had the password and all. Next, the old phone had no value. Meantime, my computer reminded me that Rosa was coming to cut my hair at two o’clock. I hadn’t heard from her in the weeks since we made that appointment, so I reached for my phone to call and confirm. Oops! No phone. Rosa meantime was texting to tell me she’d be late. So Christian was trying to read her text, email me, and get it all straightened out. He emailed me that she was coming, but when she hadn’t gotten here by two-thirty I decided she’d run into trouble of some kind and wasn’t coming. I was ready for a nap. Rosa meantime was texting that the gate was closed, and Christian was emailing to tell me to open the gate—it was already open, and I never did figure out what that was about.

Long story short: tonight I have a new haircut and a new phone. I’m not sure if Christian has linked the hearing aids to the hone or not—that was the whole point of this. And some apps haven’t downloaded yet, though I suspect they are apps that we recently eliminated. I had a whole lot of junk on there I never use.

Next confusion: Subie and Phil arrived for happy hour earlier than I thought they were coming, so I was scrambling to get out appetizers. And Sophie decided if there was company, it must be time for her supper—and began to bark incessantly. Phil has recently developed a real sensitivity to her barking, so I was trying to quiet her, fix the food, serve the appetizers, and hang on to my own sanity. Yes, she is spoiled. Jordan walked into the middle of all that and began to talk about multitasking. I considered smacking her.

We have discovered a new bit of Sophie magic. She is bad about barking when there is company. It’s partly to get attention, but she also wants treats. I maintain she has learned that if she barks, she gets a treat to quiet her—I attribute this partly to Jordan who threatens to leave if the barking continues, a threat Phil now echoes. I maintain I can’t keep giving her treats. Ever since her diagnosis of diabetes, Sophie is ravenous all the time and that’s not her fault, not anything to scold her for—Jean tells me it’s that infinitesimal bit of prednisone she takes daily. By accident one night recently, I discovered that when she’s in a barking spell, if I put her leash on her, she settles down and is fairly docile. So I did that tonight, and she spent a bit of time curled up on the sofa next to Subie. Meanwhile, Phil’s seeing-eye dog wanted to stay in the yard, wouldn’t come in. Jordan’s theory was that he was on a work break. Christian tried to entice him in and said the dog looked at him like, “I don’t have to mind you.” When Phil called him, he came right in.

In other news around the cottage, Jacob has been playing in a golf tournament this week. Monday, his tee time was early which was a blessing, but today it was eleven o’clock which would put him on the course in the hottest part of the day. His whole team withdrew from the tournament. Good for them! I know the tournament was probably scheduled long before this unbearable heat was on the horizon, but one wonders that the entire thing wasn’t cancelled Monday.

I read tonight that a cool front will arrive Friday evening. It didn’t say how cool but indicated temperatures would be close to normal. That sounds like a relief to me. And perfect timing. The whole family is arriving Friday, and there will be fifteen of us for dinner on the patio at Joe T.’s. Pray any possible thunderstorms hold off. I am as one would expect greatly excited about having all of us together—we will be missing Maddie, the oldest grandchild, who couldn’t get off work because she had just taken time off to go to Italy for a wedding. I can understand her priorities but am really sorry she won’t be with us. It will still be a glorious occasion.

The grands are all big now, with the youngest at sixteen and the oldest, twenty-three. I do miss the days when we had all those littles around us, as the picture above testifies. It popped up on my computer this morning, and I remember distinctly it was a mid-summer get-together when the Burtons lived on Mesa Drive and had a lovely, kid-friendly backyard—must have been about 2008. When the grands were little and I lived in the main house, I could sleep everyone here (except the Burtons who had their own house nearby), what with the cottage, which was then a guest apartment, the playroom in the back of the house, and a proper guest room. Now they will scatter to motels and getting them back together in the morning will be like herding cats. But we will have a wonderful weekend.

Oops. I just looked up that cool front—Saturday the temperature will be in the high nineties and then back up over a hundred. One relatively hot day, as compared to blisteringly hot, is not much relief. Stay cool folks and drink that water.

 

 

Keep a cheerful heart

 

Tuna and rice bowl with furikake
All hidden under wonderful crisp watercress.

With all that’s wrong with our world, from the suddenly very frightening increase in climate change to Russia’s continuing aggression in Ukraine to the divisive political situation in our country and the crazies who are trying to run things, you’d think we don’t need anything more to worry about. Especially those of us who are in the third stage of life and hoping for a lot of peace and quiet, good times with the worries of the world behind us. It is not to be so.

My mom lived into her late eighties (since I’m approaching her years, I take heart from that). But I remember her saying to me that the trouble with living so long was that all your friends were gone. I can count many people, once big parts of my life, who have passed on, and I miss them. But lately my thoughts are less on those who died than those with serious health problems that cause me to worry about them a great deal. Right now I can count two broken shoulders, three serious falls (when I said that Jordan added two more older relatives of a friend who had both just taken bad falls), two cases of dizziness, a hip replacement in recovery, a case of unexplained weakness. It’s tempting to say none of these are life-threatening, but the truth is when you get to your eighties, anything can be life threatening. In recent months, for instance, I have learned how serious—and sometime fatal—a UTI is. They call pneumonia “the old man’s friend” for obvious reasons, but it seems to me that any number of conditions can fit that moniker.

And when physical problems hit us elderly—there, I said the word! —they seem to hit in clusters. An email from my best friend in high school and beyond tells me she fell, broke her shoulder, came home, and began experiencing dizzy spells to the point she couldn’t navigate in her own house alone. I am glad to report that she is better. My own brother a while back was in rehab after surgery on a knee, caught Covid, followed by pneumonia, followed by am array of ills including dizziness when he stood. I am so happy to report that he too seems to be doing better but it is after a long spell of being bedridden.

It’s as though there’s a monster out there, lurking, waiting for that one sign of weakness, which will be a signal to attack with an array of problems. I guess our option is to vote for health, watch for tiny symptoms before they turn into big problems, and keep a cheerful heart. Proverbs 17:22 tells us, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” It’s a philosophy I try to live by, but I think no matter how hard we try, each of us falls off that cheerful wagon from time to time.

I did have a healthy, cheerful dinner guest tonight. My friend, Mary V., who is a retired political science professor. We get into spirited political discussions, but of course we are both on almost the same page—I am a bit more enthusiastic about another term for Biden than she is, but she agrees that he has done remarkable things and that his expertise particularly on the international front is amazing. She is one of my friends who scorns Facebook—how I wish I could tell them to pick and choose and take advantage of the good stuff and the fun stuff! Anyway I was able to enlighten her on a couple of things I saw: one was a new name for Moms for Liberty (forgive my language): Assholes with casseroles! The other was James Comer’s whistleblower—the MAGA chair of the Oversight Committee has been crowing about a witness who would totally unmask the Biden crime family. Turns out the guy has been indicted on several counts, including acting as an unregistered foreign agent for China, and has skipped bail and is now a fugitive at large. I do love it when these out-of-control Republicans end with egg on their face.

Another experimental dinner tonight. Mary is one of the people for whom I can try out new things, and she inevitably likes them. Tonight was a rice bowl with tuna, flavored with soy and sesame oil and sparked up with watercress and furikake, a Japanese seasoning made with dried seaweed, dried fish, dried herbs, etc. I didn’t taste it much, but it did make the dish look pretty.

Now it’s late, I’ve been working on my neighborhood newsletter, and I’m ready to close out the day by reading a bit.

Sweet dreams to all, and stay cool, drink water, keep a cheerful heart—please! I already have enough people to worry about.

Some days turn out just fine

 

Even images of rain make us feel better
during this awful hot spell.
The real thing was a blessing today.

If things went amuck yesterday, today turned out just fine. In the midst of the horrendous heat spell we’ve been living under, who can complain about temperatures in the eighties and a thunderstorm, however brief. This morning I gave in to the urge to keep going back to sleep every time Sophie wakened me. So we were up at six-fifteen for a trip outside and a bite of cheese; at seven-fifteen for a half breakfast; at eight-fifteen for the other half of breakfast. Finally when Christian came at nine-fifteen to give her a shot, I forced myself out of bed. But I don’t think my conversation with him made much sense. I should explain Sophie needs an insulin shot, morning and night, within a half hour to an hour after she eats—not before those time limits, not after. With the kids giving the shots, it’s been a real problem. They don’t really want to get up at quarter to eight on the weekend to give her a shot. So every weekend it a new adventure—this one went pretty well.

The morning was dark and pretty soon I heard thunder. Next thing I noticed was that Sophie would not leave my side. I nearly tripped over her trying to use the bathroom. The rain when it came was glorious, but too short. Still better than nothing, and I am grateful, as are we all.

Christian and I discussed dinner options, and he chose steak and asparagus, which he would grill in his new, round grilling baskets. That left me a whole day with no cooking, nothing on my schedule except church. I tuned in at eleven as I always do, but it was special because this was the third Sunday my good friend Renee Hoke was preaching about keeping sabbath. And there in the front row were my Canadian daughter, Sue, her husband Teddy, and their neighbor Sally. They are all Renee’s neighbors, and I know she was pleased to see them in the congregation. Christian and I had good intentions, but they fell apart. I “went to church” on my computer.

The rest of the day I took to heart Renee’s advice in last week’s sermon to make the sabbath a day of rest. I piddled, prowled on Facebook far too long, dipped my toe into a couple of new books, read emails, and can say the only constructive thing I did was to come up with a title for the cookbook I’m thinking of doing: Cooking in the Cottage. I like the ring of it. My food blog, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, which appears on Thursdays, has a good audience, and I want to compile select columns into a kind of informal cookbook—as much conversation as it is recipes. I’m thinking of odd possibilities—like a grilling chapter from Christian, and maybe something for non-cooks. All loose ideas floating around in my brain.

There’s not much better than a steak and asparagus dinner from the grill, and Christian as usual did a masterful job. I’m not much of a steak person—can’t remember having it as a child, so I’m only now in old age learning about cuts, etc. But I had seen top sirloin on sale and asked Christian, and he said to get it. So that’s what we had. More recently I found ribeye on sale, two for one, and ordered it, because I know I like the fatty marbling of a ribeye. But tonight’s dinner was really good, and we had a pleasant chat. I so enjoy our dinners in the cottage. And most of the time I enjoy cooking them, but it’s nice to have a night off sometimes.

So there it was—a day of rest. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. Tomorrow I must get serious if I’m going to do that cookbook. But today was a good day. I hope yours was too.

 

 

A day gone amuck chases away the doldrums

 

If a day could go amuck, this one did. I could have happily lingered in bed this morning. Sophie was asleep and not desperate for food, and I was comfortable, trying to recapture a pleasant dream. But I had things to do—groceries would be delivered at ten, company was coming for happy hour and supper. And there was a to-do list on my desk.

Along about nine-thirty I realized I’d never gotten a confirmation from Central Market nor the cheery email which says, “We’re working on it.” Checked my computer and twenty-seven items were still in my cart. Rescheduled the order for late afternoon.

Then Jean emailed that she had picked up some kind of bug and would not be leaving her apartment today. I was sorry but of course grateful she didn’t bring us whatever it was. Then the happy hour guests cancelled—a long story, but it meant I had to quick cancel one errand I’d asked Christian to include on his morning run.

And finally, Jordan came out and said she and Christian hadn’t communicated well and they wouldn’t be eating with me tonight because good friends were having a birthday dinner party for their daughters. There went my plans for good appetizers and crab nachos for supper. I hastily refroze the crab. Maybe we’ll have it tomorrow, maybe we won’t. I should learn that I am alone in my compulsion to plan ahead!

So what do you do when you’re home alone for dinner on Saturday night? You fix a cold salad plate with a small can of salmon. And use some of that huge container of guacamole I ordered this morning.

And so is the fact that I wrote 800 words this morning, may do more tonight. I’m not sure if the day going amuck chased away the doldrums or not, but I wrote those words in less than an hour. Of course, I’ve not re-read them. They may all need to be deleted, but for the time they moved the story ahead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing today, and I’ve decided I’m a bit defensive about my writing. On a small writers’ listserv that I really value there’s been a thread about magical realism, one of those literary terms I never can quite grasp (I don’t think anyone talked about it when I was in grad school). A couple of posts really helped me grasp it, especially one linking the movement to the spirit world of Latina culture and citing Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So this morning I was all primed to enter my two cents worth, as the author of cozy mysteries, but overnight the thread had taken a deep turn into mythology, Greek and Norse and other, and Jungian archetypes and the like. Here’s a confession: that stuff is too deep for me.

I may have dealt more seriously with history when I was writing about women of the American West, but these days I am a storyteller. I write to give readers a good story, something to engage, amuse, puzzle them, and something to distract them briefly from the daily grind. Entertainment writing. I make no claim to plumbing the depths of the human psyche or tracing the origins of certain behaviors, or changing a reader’s life. That is not to say that a good mystery can’t weave in elements of the spirit life or insights into humanity—it should, but that’s not the reason for the story.

Right now I’m reading an older Murder, She Wrote, subtitled Highland Fling. I picked it up because of the Scottish setting. Turns out the setting involves a lot about the history and punishment of witches in Scotland—surely an element of the spiritual life (if a negative one) and mythology of its own, when you think back to the sixteenth century and the brutal punishments inflicted on suspected witches (specifically in this book, a pitchfork through the heart and a cross carved into the throat—pretty brutal for a Jessica Fletcher’s story). When a contemporary murder imitates that, Jessica must find the villain (if you’ve read any of the books, you’ll know the pattern.) To me, it’s crackling good reading, with just enough history, Scottish culture and landscape, food and brogue to lighten the mystery, and it’s fun. When I finish this blog, I’ll go back to it.

One of my core beliefs is that we each must leave the world a bit better than we found it, and sometimes that worries me in relation to my writing. I think of it as light stuff, not world-changing, and maybe I should be putting whatever skills I have to better use. My friend, Susan Wittig Albert, a prolific and popular writer, assures me that by bringing readers pleasure, I am contributing to the well-being of the world. Her China Bayles mysteries always have an underlying social theme, whereas my Irene stories don’t. But I’m working on that.

Enough rambling. I want my salmon supper and then I’ll settle down with Jessica. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Stay happy and cool. Sweet dreams.

 

The summer doldrums

 

A place where I can lost the summer doldrums
Colin's lake in Tomball. Note Sophie next to me. 

It’s hot, and I’m in the doldrums. Or am I just lazy? Or is age creeping up on me? I have a friend, slightly younger than me, who says she no longer has the focus for long projects--like novels--and she is considering other ways to keep writing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, but Missing Irene, the fifth adventure for my diva chef, is dragging along. For a while, it was going great, and I could see the road ahead for some distance. But now it’s ground to a crawl, and the road is murky. Oh, I know what’s going to happen, but I’m having trouble getting there. And I’ve only just begun.

I think if you’ve been writing long enough, you know when your writing sings—and you know when it doesn’t. Years ago, my then-agent asked me to do a proposal for a publisher who wanted a young-adult book about a girl in the American West. I wrote what I thought was an acceptable proposal and sent it off. It came back with one devastating comment from the publisher: “Frankly, we find Mrs. Alter’s writing pedestrian.” Pedestrian! What a devastating word! But it probably was spot on, and I was young and green enough not to recognize it. But now, with a long career behind me—forty-plus years and over a hundred books of various types, plus articles, reviews, columns, etc.—I am very aware when my writing “feels” pedestrian. And that’s where I’ve been the last couple of days.

Lately on a writing listserv I follow, there’s been a thread about how to tell a budding author what’s wrong with a manuscript, especially if everything’s wrong from syntax to plot to character. I remember once submitting a sixty-page manuscript, on assignment, to a pamphlet series about western authors. It came back with the first twelve pages so heavily edited I could hardly find my own words amidst the red pen notes. It was absolutely the best writing lesson I have ever had and much of it has stood me in good stead over the years. So maybe that’s what I need now—a heavy red pencil.

I know the best thing to do when a project seems stalled is walk away from it and let it sit for days, even weeks. Then go back to it with new eyes. But when I do that, I feel guilty for not writing, even though I set my own deadlines. No one else is telling me I must write a certain number of words a day or produce a finished manuscript by a certain date. It’s one of the big reasons I am an indie-published author.

I can put it aside because I have other interests and projects, principally cooking. With this hot weather, Jordan has challenged me to cook light meals, and I’ve been happy with my results. Like the open-faced sandwich (see last night’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”) or the old-fashioned layer salad I made last night and had for lunch today (probably see next Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”).

I so enjoy meal planning that my grocery bill is out of sight, but I have figured something out. I buy groceries for happy hour snacks (I limit happy hour these days to a few close friends who I know haven’t been traveling—call me cautious, but the cases of Covid I’ve known have almost all been people who’ve been traveling). And I buy groceries for dinner for the three of us—Jacob is now working at Joe T.s almost every night, so I don’t figure him in. That’s a lot of groceries, between Central Market and Albertson’s, but the thing I don’t do is go out to eat. I figure I save a whole bunch of money by cooking at home. Of course, because I experiment, I buy things I wouldn’t ordinarily, which increases my bill (I just ordered furikake—look it up if you’re puzzled).

I’ve been thinking, while my novel lingers in the doldrums, of doing another cookbook. I’ve learned a lot, found a lot of new dishes in the five years since Gourmet on a Hot Plate. And I have a thick file now of what I call “keepers.” I’d love any feedback on whether it would be a good idea or not to combine my food blogs into a book.

There’s one more thing that keeps me occupied, and that’s what I see as the state of our country and the need to speak out. I could blog about that every night, but I figure I’d begin to sound shrill and would become one of those with lots of indignation and no solutions. So I save such blogs for only occasionally, and only specific topics I consider crucial—hard to define that because so many are crucial.

And that’s where I am in the doldrums. I will appreciate any cheering words, advice, suggestions, jokes, and the like. This too shall pass, and I know it, but friends are gootd to have when you’re in the doldrums.

And now, I’m off to read an old Jessica Fletcher mystery set in my heart’s country, Scotland. I missed it the first time around. Stay cool.

Some days are discouraging

 

Tonight we brightened the end of the day with an open-faced roast beef sandwich with mayo/horseradish sauce, blue cheese, good peppery watercress, diced beets, and a bit of vinaigrette. Jordan added avocado. It was pretty and delicious, and the day needed brightening, because I thought overall it was a discouraging day.

Some days I read the news online and hear it on TV, and I think the good guys are winning. Today was not one of those days. As we all know, this summer climate change has become uncomfortably real, and we read daily of heat domes and heat records set not just in our Southwest but across the globe. It has made people more aware, but will it have any effect on the politicians who cling to their profits from fossil fuels?

I read today of something called legal vigilantism. Basically, if I understand it correctly, it empowers ordinary citizens to enforce laws. The precedent is the Texas bill which allows citizens to collect a reward for turning in people who have had or try to have or arrange an abortion. It echoes the nineteenth century fugitive slave law, when citizens were rewarded for returning runaway slaves. Authoritarian leaders use legal vigilantism to sow distrust and to use citizens against each other to enforce laws. Think Nazi Germany.

The Republican Party, once the defenders of law and order and, above all, the military, are now attacking the military, the Department of Justice, and the FBI. Senator Tommy Turberville of Alabama has put a hold on all military promotions until the military rescinds its policy of granting paid leave and providing transportation for travel, when travel is necessary for an abortion. The result is crucial leadership posts are left vacant, many officers are serving at the rank and pay below what they’ve earned, morale is down, and some are leaving the military. Way to defend your country, senator!

Much of this—the attacks on the DOJ and FBI, etc.—is done with the unspoken goal of protecting trump who faces ever-increasing legal woes, as well he should. None of it is done with the idea of advancing or supporting America or its international position. MAGA Republicans, for instance, want to stop aid to Ukraine and may make that a bargaining chip when the debt ceiling rolls around again. President Biden has wisely said that Ukraine should not be admitted to NATO until the current war is over, because such admission would put America at war with Russia. But he sends weapon and support to fight what could turn into Russia’s march across much of Europe. Do Republicans care? Apparently not many of them.

A couple of things baffle me about this. I am reluctant to elieve that these people care nothing about their country. I understand that they don’t care about us as individuals. They are more interested in their own greed and power than in equal opportunity, individual rights, and the like. They have made it plain with laws that suppress individual rights, from voting to abortion. But can they really want to betray their country for the sake of one man who most believe is a crook without conscience, probably a traitor, certainly an unsavory, unreliable person?

The other thing that puzzles me is how many of these extremists who support trump are there? Some reliable articles call if a fringe, but others point out that his rallies draw large crowds and he is by a good margin the top-running candidate for the Republican nomination for president. Is it all blind, loyal followers or are there still politicians who are afraid of his power, afraid to cross him? 

So I got to thinking today about what my ideal for our country and the world would look like. If I could wave a magic wand today trump would be in prison, Abbott would no longer be governor of Texas, and Biden would be a shoo-in for the presidency—yes, he makes gaffes but overall his political wisdom and maneuverings amaze me. Russia would be defeated, Ukraine would be rebuilding (Putin might even fall out of a window). There would be no stockpile of lethal weapons in the world. People would drive electric cars recharged by solar and/or wind power. The EPA would have limitless power to enforce laws to ensure clean air and water, ban forever chemicals, and ensure the safety of our environment. That all surely won’t happen in my lifetime, but I welcome the small steps toward progress that I see.

Today I read of two groups that give me a bit of hope—one, called Win It Back, is running anti-trump ads. The group is tied to the Koch network and is ultra-right. I probably wouldn’t like many if any of them, but I applaud the ads. Much more to my liking is Mama Bears, a group with international chapters, founded by a Christian Evangelist housewife with the intent and purpose of supporting the LGBTQ community and seeing that LGBTQ citizens have all the rights and opportunities of everyone else. That lone woman demonstrates to me the power of one person’s voice and encourages all of us to be active citizens.

Okay, lecture over. Tomorrow maybe a lighter subject—and a light dinner again. Tis summer after all, and tomorrow the news may be all good.