Letting go

 

All my life, I’ve been in a hurry, always rushing to get more done, feeling pressured by deadlines, even though they were of my own making. I remember once hurrying back to my office at five o’clock after an event had taken me away for a couple of hours. The dean of students pointed out that I was going the wrong direction and it was time to leave work, not arrive, but I replied, “If I could just get a few more things done ….”

I don’t know where this pressure came from. My memory is that my mom took life as it came. Dad, however, was a workaholic, and I can still see him sitting at the dining table, late at night, with papers spread before him, a cigarette between his fingers until he quit at the age of fifty. (I remember thinking then that fifty was soooo old—now I have kids who are older than Dad was at the time. How did this happen?)

Even retirement didn’t slow me down. I just exchanged one job for another and went from directing the TCU Press to writing full-time. For several years, I pushed myself to write three mysteries a year. Now I wonder why.

It took pandemic to slow me down. Part of it was, like all of us, I stopped going out to lunch and dinner. After a few months, Christian was amazed. “You’ve been so social! How can you just stay in the cottage day after day?” I assured him I was content. My family ate supper with me, and we had a small group of trusted friends, also quarantining, who came to visit on the patio, even in cold weather—we didn’t want to be in a small, closed room, breathing on each other. But I really was content as the whole pace of life slowed.

In the tumultuous years since the pandemic, I’ve wondered how I ever had time to write books. Many days I don’t finish my opening-the-day routine until noon or later—I read emails (I get a lot of them) and I read selected news sources online—the local newspaper, a site called atAdvocacy that I really like, Daily Kos (yes, I know, it’s a liberal rag but there’s some good stuff there), Wake Up to Politics, Texas Monthly’s daily highlights, etc. And of course food columns. Mostly I think if I don’t write by noon, I won’t get it done, because afternoon is nap time. In the last year, I’ve started staying up until almost midnight—my whole schedule has changed.

I kept thinking if the national political scene ever quieted down, I wouldn’t “waste” so much time online, But something I read recently changed my view of it: retirement and slowing down gave me “permission” to be curious, to dig down any rabbit hole that interests me, including all those political opinion pieces. For instance, for yesterday’s blog, I went exploring to find out about fake scallops and to learn about the comparison of sardines to tuna. If an article totally unrelated to anything I’m working on catches my fancy, I feel free to follow it. So now I can tell you a new trend, popularized on TikTok (no, I don’t follow that) is pairing wine and potato chips. Chardonnay alls for Kettle Salt and Vinegar. Or I can tell you about forest pre-school programs, where youngsters three to five spend 70% of their time outdoors, learning about nature, both animals and plants. My curiosity has full play.

There’s another aspect to this relaxation. If I don’t write it today, there’s always tomorrow. I never ever felt that way before—I’d set a goal of 1500 words for the day and kill myself to make it. Yesterday I had a scene in my work-in-progress in mind all day, but I just didn’t get to it. Come nine o’clock, and I’m ready to read someone else’s mystery. Then I thought, “I’ll just jot down some thoughts.” In the next hour I wrote 1200 words. If I’d forced myself to write at that hour, I’d have slogged through some uninspired passages. But because I let it happen spontaneously, I got in some good writing.

Perhaps the first sign of this new (to me) relaxation I noticed was that I stopped and stared out the window more frequently and for longer periods. At the right time of day, I can glimpse the children going to school across the street. I have a cool glass teakettle with neon blue lights indicating it’s heating. These days, I sit and watch it, stare at that blue light, watch the bubbles come up, wait for that magic moment when suddenly silently it goes dark when it reaches boiling. Never fails to fascinate me. The old me would have rushed back to the computer to make use of that two or three minutes.

None of us will ever in any way be grateful for the pandemic, but I do think this is one small benefit. And, yes, I am most content.

One man tells his story

 

My hyacinth grape vine, having straggled through the summer,
is now blooming more than I've ever seen it. The friend from whom I got seeds
is afraid this year the seeds will be too late if they even show up.
Fingers crossed, please.

Maybe I move in a feminist world, but I am always hearing that women need to tell their stories. We need to hear from women—not Taylor Swift (bless her!) or Beyonce or even Hilary, but women like you and me. Ordinary stories. We’ve been silenced too long. Well, what I’m realizing with the book I’m reading is that undiscovered men have stories to tell too, stories that give us model for living life as it should be. Forget the politicians and football players whose stories make instant bestsellers. Let’s hear from our next-door neighbor who struggles with career or family issues or bill payments or all the little stuff of life that we all do. And sometimes some added burdens.

I’m reading The One-Armed Soldier, an autobiography by Wayne Bizer, an osteopathic ophthalmologist (try saying that three times fast). The book is far too long for an autobiography, and I agreed to read it only at the behest of a good friend. I admit I dragged my heels, but then I found myself engaged in the story and charmed by the author.

The child of Jewish European immigrants, Bizer grew up afflicted with ADHD (attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder), dyslexia, and a dysfunctional family background. Nobody paid attention to those afflictions when he was young, and he didn’t even recognize them until well into adulthood. He scraped through school, was a college drop-out, and showed every sign of being a failure for life. But he had ambition. Instead of failing, he earned a medical degree and certification in a specialty (ophthalmology), married an apparently wonderful woman, raised two sons, and made a great success of his career in medicine.

I’m not going to tell you this is a Horatio Alger success story about a man who pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Time after time, Bizer hit rock bottom. He was on the edge of seeing his dreams collapse, but he was always saved at the last minute—childhood accidents that nearly cost his life, a near miss from the Vietnam draft, rejection by two medical schools, only to find his niche at the third. Every time he was given another chance, Bizer vowed to make it work—and he did with a combination of determination and perseverance. And, until he married, without much encouragement from family. Finding forgiveness and reconciling with his once-alcoholic mother is yet another part of his story. So is the faith of his childhood—though dyslexia caused him to barely skate through his bar mitzvah. Grown, he brings whatever family together that he can for Shabbat every Friday night. Although ADHD and dyslexia are mentioned, they don’t play a huge part in this story. It’s as though Bizer used them as steppingstones on which to climb to his future.

Bizer tells his story in a conversational, friendly manner, without preaching but with lots of humor and nice touches of honesty about himself and the many times he goofed. As he says at one point, his life story was always about “when I grow up.” If most lives are lived in straight lines, he says his is a bowl of scrambled spaghetti. There’s not a lot of introspection here, just casual comments offhand, no wallowing. What there is, though, is the magic of storytelling, be it childhood adventures, scary episodes in school, or patient stories from his practice. Bizer is a man who seems to love life and what he has made of his own. His is an inspirational story of a life well lived. And having never met him, I like this man a lot.

Ever thought about telling your story?

The suddenness of it

 

A friend died yesterday. In the morning, before first service, he was at church drinking coffee. In the afternoon, he was gone.

I didn’t know Father Bruce Coggin well. Over the years we met occasionally because we had a few mutual friends. But recently he and I have had some good conversations in my cottage about the publishing world and what to do with all the things we’ve written. Father Bruce’s legacy includes an incredible amount of material, some published, some not—sermons, essays on history and the church, a memoir, travel pieces, accounts of growing up in a small Texas town and also of ten years spent teaching in Mexico, and a lot of miscellany. (You can find his published work by searching for Bruce Coggin on Amazon; the works include a book of selected writings by his grandmother, a remarkable woman way ahead of her time—Bruce saw himself in part as inheriting her writing ability and outlook on life. The book is A Soul Housed Up.)

Father Bruce was a gifted writer, with a clear style, an incisive wit, and an ability to see through the follies of mankind. He wanted to do something with all this work but wasn’t sure what. We talked about various possibilities, conversations that were as enlightening to me as they were to him. The last time we talked, he left with the enthusiasm of a man with a job ahead, one he was looking forward to. He was going to start with a web page, and a friend tells me he talked to her about it as recently as yesterday. I was looking forward to keeping up with his progress—and more conversation.

Sudden death is sometimes a blessing. The deceased is spared the pain, suffering, and indignity of a lingering illness. But it is devastating to those left behind. In this case, it seems especially tragic that a man is cut off when he had so much he was looking forward to accomplishing. Whether or not you want to believe that God had another, more important calling for him is up to you.

Not only do I mourn for this man, his family and friends, and the many former parishioners who are devoted to him, I am shaken by the suddenness of his death. I saw him less than a month ago; a friend tells me she had lunch with him a week ago; another friend talked with him about his web page Saturday; yesterday, he was at church drinking coffee, though apparently not feeling well. And then, suddenly he’s gone.

RIP Father Bruce. I hope you’re up there, finding God’s fingerprints in old and new places and writing furiously. And I hope someone down here publishes some more of your work.

Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date

Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend across Texas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got all gussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me a picture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpy dresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me of Kegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball (I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin the homecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sent pictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance, she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediate grandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littles together. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littles around me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is the youngest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. I think I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out of childhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love them dearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasant day. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and it turned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. I know that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it was because of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went to church virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in the congregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of us wearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom over us, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but having never had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomach thing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. An easy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake at the time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tell myself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunder teased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap right overhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we got perhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way to deliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they were caught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urged Christian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than five drops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconic dish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserole has been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food service at TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtons made a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, we hadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a small dinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident in surgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was called Mrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served it that night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it American lasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. I know I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the first of what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myself scallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and then sauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were a bit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on the bed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health, good food, and blessed gentle rain.

Some random thoughts on food

Big Mac Salad
What could be more American?

I’ve been thinking about food—well, when don’t I always? But I’ve come to some conclusions, and one is about the way even a brief illness changes your perspective particularly on food, but also on sleep and life in general. As you may know, I had some sort of stomach “thing” that had me down and out for about thirty-six hours. I couldn’t bear to think about food, I lay in bed but couldn’t sleep, and I had little interest in anything from writing projects to politics which is, as you know, an obsession of mine.

But when I began to come back to myself, I found I was incredibly grateful for a boiled potato with butter, for sleep, for my own imagination. It was as though I had developed a new appreciation for the things I took for granted. Oh, I well know this is a temporary feeling, a bounce-back if you will. But for now, it’s nice to see daily life through these tinted glasses.

Just before my system rebelled, Jordan, Christian, and I had a calendar conference. Result is they have a busy October ahead—isn’t fall always a busy time as we head toward the holidays? I will be eating a lot of dinners alone. At first, I was sort of disappointed, but once I was on top of things again, I began to make lists—I would invite close friends for happy hour, so I began to list appetizer ingredients to have on hand. Then I listed things I would fix myself for supper. Starting with tonight, which will be fresh spinach and scallops sauteed in butter with a squeeze of lemon and maybe half a tiny potato left from last night. I’m going to make a tuna casserole, and one night I’m going to try to do corned beef hash as good we my mom did (don’t judge—I love it, to the amusement of my children). I’ve gone from disappointed to excited. Oh, I do have some things on hand for a couple of dinners with the Burtons, and I did print a recipe for beef tips with gravy that sounded good. Jordan was not so enthusiastic about a marinated kale salad with salmon, and while I agree I dislike kale, I thought this might be good.

Maybe that planning made me realize that my culinary tastes are going in one direction while those of my usual recipe sources, like The New York Times and Bon Appetit, are headed in a totally different direction. This morning the NYT featured cumin and cashew rice and sticky harissa wings. The Bon Appetit I just leafed through had tuna carnitas—can you just imagine Christian’s face if I served that to him? There’s a recipe for pancit sotanghon—some kind of soup, I believe. Cộte de bœf au poivre or pork schnitzel would probably be delicious, but they’d take a lot of work and might be impractical in my tiny kitchen. I have no idea what butter pav bhaji is (just looked it up—street food from India consisting of vegetable curry and a soft bun).

I’m beginning to recognize three things that I unconsciously bring into play on choosing recipes. Two are fairly straightforward: time and space. Much as I love to cook and to feed people, I don’t want to spend all day cooking, nor do I want to take on such messy, complicated things as dredging chicken in egg and flour (I can buy good fried chicken). And my tiny kitchen and limited supply of pots and pans dictates that I avoid complicated recipes that dirty every pan in a normal kitchen. Been there, done that.

But the third things is that given an unfamiliar recipe from, say the African continent, and a familiar American dish, I’ll choose the latter every time. Maybe this is somehow related to the disinclination to travel widely that baffles my friends, but that’s a rabbit hole I’m not going down right now. Truth is I love chicken divan and meatloaf and tuna casserole and a good bowl of chicken soup. That’s why I’m working on a cookbook about food from the Fifties, with recipes from my mom and my contemporary adaptation of some, along with some text about the Fifties, including those ridiculous jellied salads. Southern Living is more my style.

I can hear Irene making a snide comment. Okay, Irene, I like French cooking too. Look at all those recipes in your books!

An apology, a kitchen failure, and a leaky disaster

 

Living room mess to repair a/c  unit

If you are a regular follower of my Thursday “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog, an apology. I didn’t get it written this week because some kind of nasty stomach bug laid me low, and writing about food was the last thing I wanted to do. Which is kind of okay, because before the bug hit, the only thing I had to write about was a column on sardines (still to come—are you a fan?) and an epic kitchen fail. The two didn’t seem to belong in one post.

About the fail: I find recipes in all sorts of places, including culinary cozy mysteries, which are popular right now. So when the main character in a novel kept whipping up this dish (actually cooking it long and slow in a crockpot), I had no qualms about stealing it. (I won’t name the novel because I gave up on it before the end.) One of the other characters described this as Thanksgiving dinner in one pot. You season chicken breasts with salt and pepper and put in your pot; dump in a one-lb. box of prepared turkey dressing and top that with a sauce made of mayonnaise, sour cream, chicken broth, and water, and top all that with some frozen green beans. Cook it on high for five hours. I thought it would be perfect for the day when we have a regular happy hour visitor.

I will confess I made a couple of mistakes: for chicken broth, I read cream of chicken soup and dumped it in before I realized my mistake, so later in the cooking process I added a half cup broth. I can’t see that should have done anything but make it better. But then, due to uncertain schedules around here, I let it cook too long. Finally ended up eating alone because this one had a sudden happy hour appointment and that one had something to do at the school.

I wished for a long cooking fork (lost in the downsize) to reach down and get to the chicken, but I used a long wooden spoon. At first, it felt like I was digging into concrete. I ended up eating dressing with sauce and green beans. Let me say the beans were delicious—must be the broth. The dressing was sort of crisp/mushy, if there is such a thing, and not very flavorful. Christian tactfully said later that it needed more seasoning. I just sent the whole mess into the house for the Burtons to deal with and haven’t heard a thing since. My guess is that Jordan and Jacob declined, and Christian ate it. There may still be some in their fridge. Catastophe #1.

Catastrophe #2 – as I was closing the patio door last night, I looked down and found the chair next to me had a big wet spot. Poor Sophie—when you’re the only dog in the house, suspicion immediately falls on you. I felt of it, sniffed, and determined it wasn’t Sophie. So I called Jordan because the next possible source was the ceiling-hung air-conditioning unit above the chair. She came out, determined that the entire chair was soaked, and began rearranging—the picture came down, chair cushion and pillow went outside, plastic bags covered the chair, towel, and bowl on the floor. After all that prep, she turned the unit off. The cottage stayed cool enough with the bedroom unit all night, but of course I lay awake worrying about critters eating the cushion. If they did, I would have to have two chairs totally recovered. They did not, but Sophie barked during the night, something she rarely does, and I suspect she was scaring off a critter. You learn to translate dog barks after time, and we do have a resident possum.

So this morning—for far too long—the repairman has been here. I’m beginning to worry about the bill. He’s affable, and I’ve now known him for years—can’t tell how many. But none of that makes him cheap.

I am hoping there is no Catastrophe #3, unless my stomach bug counts. When your bed keeps calling to you and you have no enthusiasm for doing anything, your mind wanders off on tangents. Mine began to assemble a book last night, called “My Scrapbook” (tentative)—a collection of short stories, poetry, quotes, lyrics, maybe some of my own posts, even hymns that have meant something to me over the years. It’s barely a work in progress, but so far it includes Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, Robert Flynn, Elmer Kelton, and Dorothy Johnson, lyrics by Joan Baez and Neil Diamond, and the refrain from “We’ve a Story to Tell the Nations.”

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
and the dawning to noonday bright,
and Christ's great kingdom shall come on earth,
the kingdom of love and light.

For some reason, that refrain has been an ear worm for me for a couple of days—not a bad one. I hear myself singing along as though I could carry a tune. But I think everyone should have a scrapbook like that. What and who would be in yours?

A good dinner … and a recollection about dining out in Fort Worth

Jordan, Christian, and the French onion dip

Jordan, Christian, and I had dinner at Walloon’s tonight (for out-of-towners, that’s a new seafood restaurant that has gotten a lot of buzz—so much so that Megan in Austin told me she’d heard good things about it). The occasion was Christian’s birthday—which was way back in early August, but we had never gotten around to celebrating. The dinner was a joint gift from Jordan and me.

The birthday boy enjoyed it a lot—and so did we. The restaurant is in a restored bank area, complete with a vault. Christian told me there was a table in the vault, but I was sure I’d feel claustrophobic. Instead we had a nice table by the windows, where I could gawk in admiration at the tin ceiling, old fixtures, and grand columns. It was restoration well done, so that the old and the new blended perfectly. Our table was either really old or a good faux job—wood with a raised pattern. I’m not remembering the floor, but I think it was those old, tiny tiles.

Our waiter, Marco, was charming and efficient but not the hovering kind. We started with an appetizer of French onion dip which was subtly different from the familiar dry soup/sour cream mix we all know. Both Jordan and I had the lobster roll—stuffed with plenty of lobster filling in a delicious sauce. So good, but so rich. It came with fries, which we both swore we wouldn’t eat—they were delicious too. Christian, who came to salmon late in life, wanted to try the roast salmon to see how it differed from what we cook at home. Big difference: it came on a rich (there’s that word again) bed of creamed corn, leeks, zucchini, and dill. I know how good it was because he gifted me with the zucchini—may he never realize what he’s missing by not eating squash!

We absolutely didn’t need dessert, so we ordered one chocolate mousse with three spoons. Again, so rich, but so good. We let Christian eat most of it, but I will say chocolate mousse is one dessert that tempts me.

We came home, overfed and happy. I admit I had to have an evening nap. It wasn’t the two glasses of wine—it was all that heavy food.

Earlier today I was emailing back and forth with the neighbor who does restaurant reviews for our HOA newsletter, which I edit. We both commented on the number of new restaurants and the variety of really outstanding dining experiences now available in Fort Worth, and that got me reminiscing about the past. I moved here in the early Sixties, and in those days if you wanted to go out for an upscale, celebratory dinner, there were two choices: the Carriage House and the Swiss House. I never went to the Swiss House until much later when it had moved and was on a downhill slide.

But my ex and I were regulars at the Carriage House, so much so that we were always seated in the back room which was sort of a private club. In those days, you had to be a member to order a drink, so lots of restaurants sold memberships for a dollar or so. The walls of that room in the Carriage House sported lovely, mostly tasteful paintings of nude women. I’m not sure if that was a fetish of Mac who owned the place or not, but I remember the night we decided our two oldest children were ready for a nice dinner followed by a Gilbert & Sullivan performance. In the private room, their eyes bugged out at those paintings.

There was a waiter named Chad, who would see me come in the door and say, “Dover sole and spinach.” It was my standard dinner (I still love it to this day.) If a patron had a birthday, the waiters would gather and sing “Happy Birthday.” Joel, my then-husband, knew I hated such public attention, so of course he took me there on my birthday—with his mother visiting from the Bronx. The waiters sang, I was embarrassed, Joel was grinning, and his mother kept repeating, “Judy, dear, such a considerate husband you have.” I wasn’t sure which one of them to kick first.

Gradually the dining scene in Fort Worth changed. The House of Mole was almost as upscale as the original two, and when the owners (who included an osteopathic physician we knew) sold it, it became Mac’s House. Yep, McIntosh from the Carriage House. My oldest son, Colin, went to work as a busboy at Mac’s House for his first job, and we all learned to love Mac’s salad and Wash’s fries (Wash was the dishwasher). Never could duplicate either one. And one of the next on the scene was the Merrimac, a river-front restaurant managed by Mac’s son-in-law. It was the first place I ever had ranch dressing.

Those glory days and those restaurants are long gone, and while I love the many choices we have today, I miss the familiarity, the small world sense of those old places and the people we knew there. Another memory to cling to.

Want a doughnut?

 

Cobb salad, a healthy dinner, right?
How many of the ingredients have chemicals in them?
Can you guess?

This morning, while skimming I don’t know what online, I came across an ad, with picture, for a fried bacon cheeseburger doughnut. Just reading about it made my arteries scream in pain. I know the Texas State Fair is known for bizarre foods—the farther out from normal, the better—but this wasn’t State Fair food. I assume it was someone’s honest attempt to attract fat fans.

Perhaps the State Fair sets a bad example for us: I didn’t do an actual survey, but most of the new foods, sanctioned for this year’s fair, are deep fried. Right away, I’m backing away. Really, I don’t need or want a deep-fried fruity pebble pickle. Deep-fried candy pecan bacon banana bread pudding might taste magnificent, but I’ll pass thank you. Same with deep-fried Vietnamese coffee (I have no idea how they do that) or deep-fried fireball shots.

Recently I read a couple of articles meant to frighten and intimidate. Titles like “Five Things Nutritionists Never Eat,” or “Seventy-two things you should never eat.” Obviously, because food is my shtick, I read each article. My personal conclusion was that I do pretty well: yes, I eat an occasional hot dog, but not a lot—and Kosher when I do, which I think makes a difference. I will also occasionally eat sausage and yes, I love bacon. But I don’t eat it often. Yes, I eat red meat but in moderation (okay, so we had giant cheeseburgers for dinner last night). Sometimes we use bottled dressing (a no-no because of the sugar) but usually it’s homemade, and I have a great new recipe I’m waiting to try. Same with ketchup—it’s a rare treat. There are a whole lot of things on these “never eat” lists that will never pass my lips.

Basically, such lists recommend no fried foods, no white sugar, nothing from the grocery store. Wait a minute! If you can’t eat food from the grocery, what do you eat? The thing is most groceries we buy are processed and full of chemicals meant to lengthen shelf life and enhance appearance. So instead of bottled dressing you should make your own; instead of Lunchables, make your child a lunch box of goodies, but for heaven’s sake, don’t put prepared deli meats in it or American cheese slices, such as Kraft or Velveeta. No diet soda, flavored water, energy drinks, bottled coffee, etc. Drink water. Even milk is suspect because it comes from cows who have been fed hormones and antibiotics.

The list goes on and on, and I won’t bore—or scare—you with it. But the truth is that we should all become compulsive label readers as we shop in the grocery store. Watch for chemicals, hormones, vitamins, etc. When a label says, “Low fat” or “reduced sugar,” be aware that to compensate for taking those things out of a product, manufacturers have added something else. Onr person I know referred to the additives as “a shitstorm of chemicals.” I never, for instance, buy low-fat cottage cheese or sour cream. (I shouldn’t eat those things anyway because humans are the only mammal who eats dairy after childhood, but I like them. And that reminds me, another favorite, mayonnaise is on the don’t eat list because of the fat content, but I’m not trying reduced fat.)

The point of all this is that as Americans (I can’t speak for other countries), we have modified our food supply to the point that much of it is unhealthy. Tonight, in another context, Jordan said so many people seem to be developing health problems—severe ones. I think it’s no coincidence that we are seeing more cases of severe disease—several forms of cancer, including gliobastoma, the deadly brain tumor, diabetes, or autoimmune disease. Science tells us that an average of 200 synthetic chemicals are present in the systems of newborn infants. So think what is in the system of an adult in America. We are being processed and preserved to death.

Not many of us have the time or inclination—or perhaps budget—to buy only organic, to cook everything at home from scratch. And yet that’s what it would take to even begin to reverse the pollution in our bodies. So each of us must choose a pathway—how much prepared and preserved food are you willing to eat? How much work are you willing to do to purify your diet, cook from scratch, and eat healthily? Not many of us can live on the land and be self-sustaining. So somewhere there’s a compromise for each of us. Where’s your line in the sand?

In the aftermath of the Paxton travesty

 

Sophie being cute. Photo by Jordan Burton.

But I also hope that folks across the country — even in “safe” blue geographies — are finally, finally, after years and years of ignoring the folks who’ve been making the argument, starting to understand that Texas isn’t an outlier, it’s a bellwether. It’s a miniature funhouse mirror showing us a terrible preview of what’s to come for our national political situation if we don’t course-correct (or, more terrifying but possible, can’t course-correct).—Andrea Grimes, Home with the Armadillo (Substack)

Sorry, but this is another political post. The dangers of too much power in any man’s hands has been on my mind for a while. As far back as Harry Truman, conservatives found the word “socialism” an enormous threat; for progressives today, the fear-laden word is authoritarianism: power in the hands of one person. Authoritarianism vs. democracy.

The facts are a bit scrambled, but in 2022 Elon Musk refused to let Ukraine use his Starlink communications system to coordinate a drone attack on a Russian fleet in the Black Sea. Ukraine and its allies were “concerned.” Musk claimed he averted a much bigger catastrophe—read a hint of nuclear revenge. Whichever side is right, the fact is that one man, holding the power of communication, may have changed the course of the war. And that one man was not a military specialist, not a government representative. Just a man who is incredibly rich and controls a major communications network.

We see these one-man power struggles all around us. Ron DeSantis has come close to devastating Florida with his strict laws enforcing what history is taught, what books students can read, who can vote, what rights women have, what medicine trained physicians can practice, who you can love and who you cannot, who can play what sports. Strangely enough, he has not carried his extreme control into the area of gun safety, and there are few restrictions on gun ownership. His never-ending grasp reaches into every aspect of every Floridian’s life--and he’s probably not done yet. Florida is suffering because of it—citizens, particularly physicians and college faculty, are leaving the state in droves. But so are LGBTQ citizens, parents of trans children, probably Black citizens. Economic results are also being felt, with DeSantis biting the hand that feeds him—the enormous Disney complex that hires thousands of Floridians and brings millions of tourists to the state. What advantage DeSantis sees in creating this 1984-ish society I can’t see, except that it outdoes trump and appeals to a narrow segment of ultra-conservative voters. Perhaps—oh, make that probably, there’s a whole lot of personal ego involved too. There’s been so much pushback out of Florida that I’m not sure how big his base in his own state is.

Greg Abbott of Texas is of course another example of a leader gone power-mad. Abbott came to prominence as the Attorney General who sued the federal government every day, a clear sign that he was not into supporting democracy. He has not only passed draconian laws concerning guns—no license, no training, young age limit for ownership, any kind of gun is fine, including concealed—but he too has unrealistic laws concerning abortion, voting, gay and trans students, book bans, etc. His inhumane and devious tricks at the southern border have brought him clashes with the federal government, but he remains defiant—while even young children die.

Texas and Florida have earned contempt from much of the nation. One could say they are laughingstocks, but there is nothing funny about the disregard for the individual human life. That disregard negates everything this country was founded on: the principle that all men are created equal. Those regimes definitely move us toward authoritarianism.

One can’t quite say that Paxton has that much power, but what his acquittal shows us if that if you are a useful tool to powers with money, you can grab onto power and hold it. Corruption, in favor of the moneyed few, gives Paxton his power, and in many ways, it’s as scary as the domination of authoritarians. Anyone with half a brain, watching even a portion of the impeachment proceedings, knows that Paxton was guilty. His own attitude and absence from the proceedings seem to indicate that he knew it didn’t matter. He was confident and, to our detriment, it turns out he was right. Corruption won out.

The former guy, as Joe Biden calls him, has long been a known admirer of authoritarian leaders, from Hitler and Mussolini to Putin and Kim Jong Un. What semi-saved us from some of his worst ideas was that he had a minority in the House. Democracy worked, to some extent. Trump is already spouting his plans for a revenge reign, should he return to the White House in 2024. And he has famously said that he listens to no one but himself. Scary words from an overweight man of questionable mental stability who has surrounded himself with corrupt advisors. What Joe Biden did when he first came into office was to surround himself with experts in many fields.

I watched a video recently by a reporter who toured Kevin McCarthy’s district, the farming heartland of California. It was scary. Almost to a person, voters said Biden was too old and they were thinking they would support trump again. The word authoritarianism means nothing to them. I won’t use Hilary’s term deplorables, but I will say they are among the uninformed who believe every bit of disinformation handed to them. Without questioning it.

I leave you with a scary thought: does the Paxton acquittal presage an acquittal for trump? I would hope not. Trump will be tried n a courtroom by a jury of his peers, not by politicians with political loyalty to blind their judgement. But in this day, no one can predict anything. I for one want to fight hard—against authoritarianism, against corruption, for democracy. Hope you’ll help. There’s no room for complacency now.

 

 

 

 

Living in a judgmental world

 

Don't judge! Home alone on Sunday night, you have sardine toasts.
Sardines, on buttered garlic toast, with tomato, pickled onion, and lemon juice.
so good!

Sunday mornings these days I wake up with a one-word question on my mind: “Church?” I always hope for an early enough answer from the Burtons so that I have time to look presentable. Like I don’t want to show up in church with still-wet hair or no make-up. So today, Christian, Jacob, and I went to church.

The sermon text was from Matthew, the parable about noticing the speck in your neighbor’s eye without being aware of the log in your own eye. The point, of course, was that we live in a judgmental society. We judge others without looking at our own weaknesses. It hit home with me because I’m aware I tend to rush to judgment.

I’ve been working on my own tendency to be judgmental for a long time, though I’m not sure the work has done that much good. This morning, I noticed a young woman in church with bleached blond hair, poorly cut, dry as straw—and that was my impression of her. Until I told myself she was young and she was in church, and that was to her credit. Wasn’t it too bad that someone couldn’t reach out to her and help her make her hair more attractive.

There was a young mother sitting off to the side with a toddler, maybe two years old. Still in the phase of uttering sounds rather than speaking—and utter sounds she did, throughout the entire service. The mother made half-hearted attempts to shush her and to replace the hymnals the child scattered on the floor. I felt sorry for the mom, because I assume she wanted to be in church badly enough that she endured the child’s antics. I didn’t even judge because she didn’t put the child in the nursery, because I remembered the time I tried that with Jacob. He was terrified of the volunteer who scooped him up in her arms, and he held his arms out to me, his eyes pleading to go home. So I understood this mom. But I still judged because the noise was a distraction. Every time the child screeched, I found myself involuntarily turning my head in that direction. But it was Jacob who in the car said, “Speaking of judgmental ….” and mentioned the child. In the car between church and home we caught ourselves in three instances of judgmentalism. We had a good laugh about it, but the truth is that our tendency to rush to judgement, as a society, is a real problem.

Judgmentalism particularly does not belong in church. We all know that church membership in this country is declining gradually, but Russ told us this morning that the principal reason for the decline is the judgmentalism that people meet in church. My church describes itself as open-hearted, a place where all are welcome without judgment. I wonder how much that works out in truth.

My mom was fond of aphorisms, and one that she quoted often was, “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.” Today it makes me think of the blonde in church or the young mother. I am too prone, despite myself, to spot the weakness in people rather than the good. I’m still working on it. Today a woman posted online complaining that middle school kids waiting for the bus were standing on her lawn. I suggested she go talk to them, and she replied it was their problem, not hers. I replied gently that if it bothered her, it was her problem. Kids that age probably had no idea that it offended her, and I repeated she should talk to them if it bothered her. I’d call her judgmental, but my bad was that I added that I was sure glad I wasn’t her neighbor.

Back to church for a moment. After the service, we were talking to the associate minister who said as she was writing the prayer for today’s service, the verdict from the Paxton impeachment came in, and she had a real conflict praying not to be judgmental. We all had a good laugh, but in truth that story hit too close to home. Politicians? Especially Republicans? Feel free to judge, especially after this weekend. (I only half mean that as a joke.)

 

The urge to purge, disappointment, and surprise

 

Just because I really like this picture.
My gang and me in front of Tiffany elevator doors in Chicago's Palmer House.
That trip was seven years ago right about now.

This morning dawned dreary again, and I thought we were in for a day of rain. Wishful thinking. I knew the Burtons had plans most of the day—Jacob’s golf tournament, a football game tonight, etc., and I had no plans, so it promised to be a long day. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to work on. Drifting, you might call it.

I’m not sure what changed the mood of the day, but I found myself purging files. I have a rack of file folders on the credenza (a much fancier word for what it is) by my desk. It’s overcrowded and messy, and somehow, I found myself pulling folders, sorting old papers. I had a file labeled “Pending” where I stuck everything I didn’t know what to do with. As a result, there were receipts from 2019 and precious little that I needed to save today. Several files could go to the “inactive” file—a disorganized drawer in the bottom of a cabinet beyond the pretentious credenza. No, I did not alphabetize—I just stuck them in wherever they would fit. That’s one thing the kids will someday have to deal with—I can’t get down on the floor to be orderly about it.

And then there are recipes—four folders of them, though I sent one folder, labeled something like “Lean and Green” into the house for Jordan. And I sorted through the others, some with recipes I’ve kept since the seventies when the kids were little. It wasn’t the old recipes I purged—they are like treasures—but the countless new ones I print on impulse and then later realize I will never cook. I have now filled two wastebaskets, mostly with culled recipes.

While I sorted and discarded, I had the TV on, watching for a Paxton verdict. When it came, it was at first agonizingly slow—for each article of impeachment, a clerk read off the way each senator voted. Call me Pollyanna, because I honestly thought the vote might go against him. But as the words, “the Senate cleared him” came up more often, I lost heart. At first, I thought maybe the more serious charges would come later, but no. That bunch of cowards acquitted him on all counts, when it is clear to anyone who’s been following the proceedings that he is guilty as sin. One national news source called him “impressively corrupt.” Let me right now give a shout-out to my senator, Kelly Hancock of North Richland Hills, one of only two Republicans who consistently voted to find him guilty. I quickly wrote Hancock a note of appreciation.

There’s not much consolation to be had, and I won’t rehash Paxton’s corrupt career nor the proceedings, though I thought it impudent and imprudent of Dan Patrick, at the end of proceedings, to blame it all on the House who should have not impeached in the first place. Talk about impartiality.

I am angry. I am furious. I am dismayed that I live in a state where corruption and greed rule. I don’t intend to be silent, but I feel helpless, and I don’t like it.

My day was brightened, however, about two o’clock when the phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize so I didn’t answer. It quit ringing, but whoever it was called right back, and I saw that it was a call from Omaha. Normally the origin of the call doesn’t mean much, but I answered just in case. And it was one of the people in this world I most treasure: Martha Andersen, who I’ve known since the early Sixties.

We were in graduate school, working on master's degrees, at Kirksville State Teachers College (now Truman State University) in Missouri. Our fathers knew each other, which was our initial contact. Her fiancé and my soon-to-be husband hit it off, and the four of us spent a lot of time together, until they left as Dick’s work took him to Kansas and then Nebraska and we moved to Texas. But we kept up, and they visited. After my divorce, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Martha, and in later years the three of us went to Santa Fe and they made a couple of trips to Fort Worth. When they sublet a condo in Hawaii, Jordan and I flew out to spend days with them.

It was and always has been on of those friendships that just clicked. We can go weeks, months without talking and then pick up right where we left off. She is sometimes a beta reader for something I’ve written, and she’s good—I take her ideas and comments seriously. Today we talked about my kids and hers and where they are today. For most people, that’s idle conversation, but we really care. She talked about gratitude after all we’ve both been through—and I had to stop and think for a moment. I worry about her health, but I don’t think of myself as having been through a lot. But then there was divorce and cancer surgery years ago and in recent years the hip, and I realized she has always been there for me.

Bittersweet: neither of us travel these days, so I doubt we’ll ever hug again. Makes that phone conversation all the more precious. I have her number in my computer, and I intend now to all often and a lot. Email isn’t enough.

It’s the little things

 

A much younger Jacob 

The timer on my toaster oven started going off about seven minutes before the time was up—and it went off almost continually for those seven minutes. Sophie does not like the toaster oven, and when it goes off, she barks—incessantly. I tried the chat function with Breville, where after a long wait someone said they were referring me to the proper department—and apparently hung up, because the chat went dead. I knew I should call, but for over a week I’ve been avoiding it. I think I only used the oven two or three times, and nights when we had a skillet supper, like last night, it was easy to put it out of my mind. But it was on my calendar, and the computer kept reminding me it was days overdue.

So I bit the bullet and called. Got a woman with an indeterminate accent—not good for my old ears. Apparently not good for her comprehension either. I relayed what was happening, and I guess tried too hard to be cute, because I added, “My dog barks at it constantly, and it’s really annoying.” She replied, “I don’t understand. You have a dog ….?” I finally had to say, “Forget the dog!” Wonder of wonders, she made two suggestions: stop using the bake function when I should be using roast and unplug the oven for two hours so the timer can reset itself. That’s one of those simplistic solutions that leaves you wondering why you didn’t just do that in the first place. I unplugged, and it apparently fixed the problem. I feel like a combination of a ninny and a success.

Rain is not a little thing—except when it comes in a drizzle as it did today. The morning was dark and damp and drizzly, and I worried about Jacob who was playing in a high school golf tournament (52 area schools). Apparently, the rain didn’t stop it, and he did a good job, Meanwhile at home the rain was creating small miracles. The lantana is blooming, and the hyacinth vine on the fence by my desk window is sending out a few tentative blooms. Those plants have been dormant all summer, doing their best to survive. Now, they won’t bloom for long, but I’ll take what I can get.

I went to the podiatrist today. The doctor’s wife/receptionist asked about my VW bug and when I told her it is twenty years old, she said, “Oh, and I remember when you got it!” We decided we are both aging, but I thought it was nice that I’ve had that established relationship with them for that long and that she remembers personal details when I am one of many, many patients. I like them both a lot but dislike their building: the handicap ramp has a really coarse pebbled surface. I got about halfway down, clutching the railing, and suddenly sat in my walker, told Christian I was giving up. He, kind soul, pushed me to the car.

No cooking tonight. We had take-out sandwiches from our favorite sub place. It was sort of nice to realize in the late afternoon that I didn’t have to cook. Mostly I enjoy it but a night off every once in a while is welcome. Now I find I won’t cook for the next two nights either, except for myself, so I may be ready to cook a fine meal come Monday. Tomorrow is a football game, and Sunday the Burtons will go to his sister’s for her birthday

Tonight I’m checking on the whereabouts of my other children. I thought Colin was in Montreal for work, but my “Find Friends” tells me he’s home in Tomball. Megan and Brandon are in Telluride for a music festival, both in awe of a singer (country/western, I presume) that I never heard of. At least I’ve heard of Pearl Jam, though when I saw pictures of the audience bathed in red lights, I was really glad not to be there. Jamie is apparently back in Frisco after a quick, one-day trip to Miami. I always feel a tiny bit better when they are all tucked in where they belong. Shh! Don’t tell them I track them.

And that’s my day of little things. Life is really sweet.

A ho-hum day

 

Pearl Jam--still a big deal, thirty years later

Do you ever have days that you look back on and wonder what you did? That was sort of mine today. What I call a ho-hum day. Didn’t sleep well last night—you know how three o’clock-in-the-morning-thoughts can look so dramatically awful and the next morning you wonder what ever was the matter with you? At three, I thought I was having a heart attack; at five, I decided since I hadn’t yet died, I should go back to sleep. At seven I decided it was just a muscle spasm, and I scrapped plans to email my doctor first thing. Then Sophie, once fed, let me sleep until nine o’clock. Once up and around, I was fine, but it’s amazing how short the morning is when I don’t get to my desk until 9:30!

Email takes up so much of my time these days because there’s so much I don’t want to miss, what with the Paxton trial in Texas and Kevin McCarthy’s foolish announcement of an impeachment investigation. There’s some really interesting commentary online, but there is also a lot of alarmist nonsense. I guess my contacts have winnowed themselves, but I don’t get much from the “other” side of politics. But my own side can be silly enough—twenty-four hours after McCarthy’s announcement, posts are still headlining, “Breaking News!” when by then it’s old news. It never was news really anyway.

There are some news columns I read religiously every day. Probably the most important is Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American. A professor of history, Richardson so aptly blends today’s events with the historical trail behind them. It’s eye-opening. Then there’s Gabe Fleisher’s Wake Up from Politics—I’m impressed because Fleisher has been doing his column for ten years, and he’s only now a junior at George Mason University (I think that’s right) in DC. I’m not as enamored of his column as I was—in his attempt to be even handed, I think he bends a bit far to the right. But that may be me. A new compilation of news I’ve recently started reading is atAdvocacy News which is openly liberal, pulls no punches, and sometimes makes me laugh out loud. We all need a good laugh these days.

Despite a late start and reading all my “morning stuff,” I did get some new words down on my first draft of “Missing Irene.” It’s fun to be back with Irene and Henny and the folks, though strangely this time I find Irene is sinking into the background. Main characters are Henny and Chance (If you haven’t read the books, this will not mean much to you). But it’s fun for me.

I’m feeling old tonight, and it’s all because of entertainers and bands. A few days ago Mark Wahlberg was pouring tequila at Joe T.’s. I had not a clue who Wahlberg was, but all three Burtons were excited about going, though Jordan and Christian eventually decided against it. But Jacob picked up his girlfriend and headed there, only to be confronted by a long line. And the guy who said he’d hold a table couldn’t. So they left and had supper at—wait for it—Chipotle for a change. I could not believe, however, that for two nights running our dinnertime conversation was about this Wahlberg person whoever he is, was, whatever.

So tonight, Jacob is laboring over his essay for his college application—he just brought me the opening paragraph, and I was favorably impressed, which he pronounced “awesome.” But his parents were invited to a Pearl Jam concert. Okay, I’ve heard of Pearl Jam but have no interest in them. Saw a picture of what I guess is the lead singer and thought he looked sweaty and dirty and his outfit was, to say the least, unremarkable. To Jordan and Christian, those are the musicians of their youth. Christian said to me this morning, with real awe, “Those guys must be at least in their sixties.” It was not the time to remind him he’s in his fifties, not that far behind them. Christian is a media junkie—movies, bands, etc. He knows them all. Me? I’m still back there with Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Joan Collins, and their ilk. I don’t even get Asleep at the Wheel.

My activity tonight was to make a turkey/bacon/avocado sandwich (got to say that was good) and then wolf it down so I wouldn’t be eating while tuning in to a neighborhood association zoom meeting. Got my nose out of joint and signed out early. So next on my agenda: reading a manuscript that a friend of a friend sent. Yes, it takes time, but that’s what I have lots of. And helping wannabe writers is my way of paying it forward.

Jacob just came in wearing a hoodie which astonished me, but when I asked, he said, “It’s raining. It’s been raining for a while.” And I missed it! Hope you got rain, wherever you are.

Of gardens and change and aging

 

A corner of my yard two years ago

Microsoft or whatever genie lives inside my computer decided today to show me pictures of the garden two years ago when it was lush and green. It was particularly inappropriate today because John, the lawn guy, came this morning to walk the yard, talk about what was hopeless, what might come back, what to do through the winter. The new rosemary is toast, the honeysuckle needs to be cut way back and should be pulled—you know it was hot if it killed honeysuckle. The lantana might make it. And so it goes. Of course, in this uncertain world, the weather is one of the most uncertain—he said if we have an early killer frost, as we did last year, it will be a double whammy some plants might not survive. But our new grass is strong and good—a bright spot.

This focus on change came on a day when I read two blogs about aging and change. The first, “More Than a Shoe Part” by John Clark on the Maine Crime Writers blog, talked about “lasts.” When was the last time you did something that you know you will never do again in your lifetime—rode a rollercoaster, went fishing on slippery rocks, climbed a mountain or hiked ten miles. He had a friend who went hunting and had to use his rifle as a cane to get home—you know that was a last.

Susan Witting Albert, writing Senior Chronicle #2 in her Place and Thyme column on Substack, also talked of the things she no longer does, though she suggested that we now have more power with the things we do. On her list of lasts were a brisk two-mile hike every morning, foreign travel, driving around the country on book tours, intense gardening. But Susan points out that technology now enables us to do much of that virtually—an author may not tour bookstores but through social media can stay in touch with readers, we may not travel but we can visit far-off lands virtually (I love videos about Scotland). We need not be confined by age; it’s simply different.

On my list of lasts, things I know I won’t do again are another trip to Scotland, probably another trip home to Chicago where I grew up (my urge to go these places is overridden by my dislike of flying these days). Sitting on a dune in the Indiana Dunes watching the sun set over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Giving a big old party for sixty of my nearest and dearest. Briskly walking my neighborhood and studying the ever-present changes—a walker makes that difficult. Driving a car, though I must say I don’t miss that so much. I adore my little VW convertible Bug, but I don’t want to drive her again.

But there are so many things I do daily that bring me joy—keeping in touch with children and grands, reading and writing, visiting with friends, cooking for my family, studying recipes, keeping up with the news and voicing my opinion. My days are full and happy and, I’ve said this a hundred times before, what I can no longer do is balanced by my wonderful memories of doing so much of it.

Some of you reading this are too young to think about lasts, but I know others my age or close to it read my blog. So what’s on your list of lasts and how do you feel about that? I used to think ahead to retirement and worry about what I would do all day, how I would feel about the things that slipped away from my life. What I’ve found is that’s not a problem at all—it’s lovely to look back at the memories, but it’s also lovely to be in the present, to enjoy the now.

Sweet dreams—or not!

 

Pork tenderloin ready to roll into a log.
Too much stuffing for the meat, but oh! it was good!

The landscape was surreal. Snow covered a narrow valley, the road curved through pastures where an occasional horse stood at the fence watching, stiff as though frozen. The craggy, almost hostile cliffs of the Rocky Mountains loomed over us. As the road climbed, we sailed through one of those curves with nothing on the other side, where you’re aware of how easy it would be just to fly off in space. There were children in the car, and we were looking for their mother. I have no idea who was driving, but we were in a Volkswagen van, not a new one. When we came to a side road, two dogs approached, one badly injured—a knife gash in its front leg.

Suddenly I knew what we would find at the end of that side road, and I didn’t want to go. It was like reading a bloody thriller novel or seeing a gory movie—I wanted to slam the book shut, run out of the theater. I wanted out of that dream.

I knew I was dreaming, and I told myself to fix my mind on some piece of reality, not the dream. It was Sunday morning, so I held fast to the idea of church. Then I tod myself to throw the covers back, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit up so I would know I was in my cottage and not on some back road in the Rockies.. But I could barely move. My arms were sluggish, as though plowing through thick mud. Inch by inch I moved the covers, all the while telling myself not to panic. And then, suddenly, I could move my arms normally. I sat on the edge of the bed and “collected” myself, while Sophie came to see if I was okay.

I had just had an episode of sleep paralysis. At first, I thought it was a nightmare, but when I read the description of nightmare, there was nothing about not being able to move. Somehow, I came across a reference to sleep paralysis, with the reassuring words, “Your body will wake up.” It doesn’t happen often, but your mind wakes before your body. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced it, but it was one of the most graphic and frightening. There aren’t a lot fo studies or protocolsl for treatment. Generally, such episodes are believed to be caused by stress. Sleep paralysis is said to occur more often in the second half of your sleep. And then there’s something called hypnagogic jerk, in which the sleeper jerks awake suddenly. Most likely to happen as you fall asleep, it’s also something I’ve experienced and it’s also due to stress.

I would tell you I am not stressed. Except for the world picture, which is a biggy, there’s not a lot in my oh-so-fortunate life to stress me. I would tell you I am blessed most nights with the ability to sleep soundly. Even when natures calls, I can go right back to sleep. I have a regular sleep pattern, if idiosyncratic: up until about midnight, sleep until eight or so, and a good long afternoon nap. Yes, anxiety has been my lifelong friend. But I am rejecting the idea of stress or anxiety and taking comfort in the words I found today: Your body will wake up. I think the next episode will be less scary.

On a more cheerful note, it was a cooking weekend. Friday, I made a big batch of pimiento cheese, an acquired taste since I don’t think I ever had it as a kid. Is it a southern thing? Anyway, as one guest suggested, it was “house made.” Served it to guests and ate so much it was my dinner. Saturday, I made turkey bundles in crescent rolls—my honest impression? The turkey and sauce (cream cheese, dill, a green onion, celery salt, and sour cream) was delicious, but it lost something when baked. I’m still learning, after two years, to adjust to my oven which bakes hot, and I did them a bit too long.

But tonight, with help, I outdid myself; a stuffed pork tenderloin and fresh fruit salad. The tenderloin has cream cheese (I blew through a lot of that this weekend) with fresh spinach, pesto, and bacon. Christian pounded the tenderloin flat for me, and Jordan tied it into a roll—a family effort. It was delicious, though when Jordan tried to slice it, it “exploded,” and we didn’t get pretty slices. Still, it’s definitely a keeper recipe. As I studied it, I decided though the recipe said tenderloin, it really meant pork loin. For example, it said to bake 60 to 90 minutes. If you did that to a tenderloin, you’d have jerky. So I adapted. And was pleased with it. And a fruit salad was a pleasant change.

Going to sleep on a happy note tonight. Cheers for a good new week for everyone.

"Exploded" pork tenderloin plated with fruit salad