Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.
A quiet day for me, spent
mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not
as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas
are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are
used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get).
But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern
or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and
taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I
had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning,
I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There
was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a
strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my
hands washing dishes if not careful.
I heard from friends in Omaha
today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow
and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40o.
Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both
have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but
fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once
again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly
good health for a woman of my age.
My small online writing circle
uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off
on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful
for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a
bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related
problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new
composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit
smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo
clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into
the instructions and see if I can figure
out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am
woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me
an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did
that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a
deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it,
and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of
the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.
These delayed chores or
whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the
cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before
Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house
that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party,
feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s
reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs
assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a
list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my
kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and
be grateful for hot water and other blessings.
My new word: my youngest
grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time
soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice
cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you,
shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang
term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s
more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic
with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way
or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into
my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will
have to do.
Good night, shawties! Sleep
tight, sweet dreams.
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