Dover sole unintentional hash
Tonight, Christian is in
Coppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being a
high school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’s
for dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” and
truth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambled
eggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called and
asked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and a
few other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpings
of sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybe
it’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not because
I need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets that
hold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justify
myself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s a
picture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after we
Almost pefect filets
ate. I think
maybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie that
never comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it was
a good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m not
quite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.
Otherwise it’s been a day at
the computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every email
from a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first time
I am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonder
about the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods with
the accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.
Today I heard from an old
friend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there part
time and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven him
out of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him into
the next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he worked
on years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Hows
and Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediately
sprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor and
harassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meet
an untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!
Hot still weather has come to
Texas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85o and the air
is eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during the
week. And 100o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and I
have the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something was
disturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He paced
our tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night,
he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming.
Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. And
he doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at the
butcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turns
away. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.
You know what I think I’ll do
tonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How about
you?
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