A bit of writerly excitement

 

Cottage pie
Image courtesy Mary Dulle

For some time now, I’ve been fiddling with a project I tentatively titled, Mom and Me in Kitchen. I want to somehow capture the importance of learning to cook from my mom in the Fifties with all that decade implies about foodways in America. It was a time of vast change—WWII was over, the soldiers were home, the post-war economy was booming. America was optimistic.

Food manufacturers faced a challenge: realign their product from feeding the military to feeding the public. And thus fast food, convenience food, prepared foods—all those were born. The food industry launched a massive advertising campaign based on the premise that housewives did not like to cook. Cooking was a chore they had inherited, because of their gender, and they longed to have it simplified for them. The less time in the kitchen, the better. Advertisements boasted of prepared meals that could be on the table in fifteen minutes or less—think Swanson’s frozen turkey and mashed potatoes dinners.

Not all American housewives bought that fifteen-minute dream. Surveys and polls showed a lot of hold-outs, women who were still scratch cooking for most of their meals. My mom was one of those hold-outs. Oh, sure, she fell for some of the hype—we occasionally ate Spam, and when she and Dad were going out, she satisfied my BFF and me with cans of spinach and Franco-American spaghetti. We thought we were in food heaven. But mom still canned her own tomatoes, made her own applesauce, baked pies and cakes, even angel food, from scratch. And made seven-minute icing, which took patience and dedication. She made her own bread, and today my kids still clamor for her dinner rolls, with a pat of butter hidden inside each.

My cooking today reflects that. I make some of the dishes I learned at her elbow, but more than that, the dishes I make today build on what she taught me in that Chicago kitchen. So that’s what I wanted to write a cookbook about. Easier said than done.

For some time I have floundered trying to explain my culinary interest and to justify my weekly food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” I enjoy the occasional challenge of a sophisticated and difficult recipe but mostly I want to cook familiar things, the kind of food I grew up eating. For instance, last night I made a meatloaf just for me—no one else was around for supper, and I figured I’d have leftovers for lunches. Tonight I made a shepherd’s pie—I don’t think my mom ever made that, but it’s in the spirit of the food she cooked. I just wasn’t sure what kind of label to hang on that approach to cooking in the 21^st century.

So I was reading Laura Shapiro’s Something from the Oven: Reinventing Dinner in 1950s America, a wonderful resource, and I came across this line: “In culinary history, the ordinary food of ordinary people is the great unknown.” For me, it was an Aha! moment. That’s what I’m trying to talk about. Menus from upscale restaurants and magazine articles about the rich and famous tell us about gourmet food, but peoplelike my mom didn’t write about their dinner. So far in research about the Fifties, I find only the upscale or the bizarre, but not the ordinary—no tuna casserole, not chicken tetrazzini, no meatloaf. And that’s my niche.

I can bypass the bizarre—all those jellied salads and sandwich loaves iced with cream cheese and most of the convenience recipes. To James Beard’s horror, Poppy Cannon, author of The Can-Opener Cookbook, once made vichyssoise with frozen mashed potatoes, one leek, and a can of Campbell’s cream of chicken soup.

The more I read today and took notes, the more I realized that this was going to be a memoir about my mom. That’s okay. She’s a good role model. And I’ll have to delve into that. Born in 1900 (we could always figure out how old she was), she lived through two world wars, the Depression (and oh my, did the effects linger). She was widowed at thirty-four with a young son. I won’t put her on a pedestal, but I will say despite all she had a terrific sense of humor, and our kitchen episodes often involved laughter, if not the outright giggles.

So that’s where memory and Mom are taking me, and I’m having a good time with it. Writing can be fun.

I want to end tonight, though, with a hope that we all pray for both the Israeli and Palestinian people. Most of them are innocent pawns caught in a war fomented by men with power who court violence. It’s not a question of right or wrong—it’s a question of human lives and unbelievable suffering and grief. Pray for peace.

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.

 

 

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.

The elusive memoir

 

For some time now, as in years not months, I’ve been stewing over writing a memoir. There are several memoirists in my favorite small, online writing group, and I think if they can do it, so can I. Some friends tell me I’ve had such an interesting life, that I should chronicle it.

A couple of roadblocks: one is the distinction between memoir and autobiography. The latter covers your entire life, from birth to the moment of writing and, as someone said, is like an unfinished symphony. How will it end? Unfortunately you (or I) won’t be around to add that ending. And unless you’re a brilliant stylist, autobiography can get boring.

Memoir on the other hand either recounts a specific time or event in your life or traces a theme that has been present for your whole life. I’ve toyed with all those ideas and come up empty. Sometimes I think these blogs will provide material—and they might if, for instance, I ever took the time to weed out all the ones about writing. Or all the ones about family. I’ve started several times and gotten bogged down each time.

Today, I happened across a review of a book titled Fast-Draft Your Memoir. At this point in my life, with over a hundred books on my list, both fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults, and with several nice awards won, I have long ago left “how-to” write books behind. If I don’t know how to do it by this point, I better quit—and there are days I feel that way. But today it was the fast draft part of the title that caught my attention—the book was cheap, so I ordered it.

And the author’s captivating style drew me in. She clarified that distinction between autobiography and memoir. Clearly, she favors the latter (and teaches courses on it at Stanford, not a tiny recommendation). I devoured her examples and then sat at thought about my life and what theme I would craft a memoir around.

I’ve often thought of writing a book about dogs I have loved, and that still might work, but is that really the part of my life I want folks to remember? If you ask me what the most important thing I have done in my life is, I would without hesitation answer raising four beautiful, wonderful people as a single parent. But another theme that grows increasingly important in my life is cooking.

That’s when it hit me: I have already written a memoir. Wrote it back in 2009. Title? Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books. It’s a cookbook/memoir, not an unusual combination these days. I divided my life into four periods (I’d add a fifth now, but that’s another story):  A Meat-and-Potatoes Household; Marriage and Two New Worlds of Food; The Casserole Years; Living Alone and Liking It—Well, Most of the Time.

The first section chronicles my Chicago childhood in a meat-and-potatoes household, where my dad’s British tastes set the tone for the daily menus, though Mom slipped in some of her German heritage (she hated sauerkraut and I never tasted it until I was grown). That section is also a tribute to Mom who was a patient guide in the kitchen and let me make messes because she saw that as part of the learning process. To this day I clean the kitchen as I go along. I can’t stand a messy kitchen with piles of dirty dishes. Whatever joy my cooking brings me and others is due to my mom.

When I married and moved to Texas, I was introduced to two new food cultures: the Jewish food of my new husband’s background and the Mexican foods and barbecue of Texas. For this section and the next one, I queried my four children for dishes that they particularly remembered and got responses of everything from green noodles to my signature recipe for Doris’ Casserole. The casserole years were when the kids were teens with voracious appetites and the budget was short. But all four knew that if you weren’t working (and they all had after-school jobs by the time they were sixteen), you’d better be home and at the dinner table by six. And you never missed Sunday dinner when there were often fifteen or more at the table. And finally there were the years of living alone, when I entertained with frequent dinner parties and an annual big Christmas parties for seventy or more and loved every minute of it.

The book was published by State House Press. When it came out, it had a picture of Jacob on the cover, because his nursery school had put him in a chef’s toque and jacket for some occasion, and it was too cute to resist. It caused a furor among the parents of my other grands and had an unfortunate marketing consequence—people thought it was a children’s cookbook—it is not. Want to check it out? It’s on Amazon: Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books (Stars of Texas Series): Alter PhD, Dr. Judy: 9781933337333: Amazon.com: Books

So there you have it: the memoir I forgot I’d written. It’s about cooking, but it’s also so much about raising my family. Should I do another? I don’t know. I’m debating about themes. Any suggestions are welcome.

 

Moving slowly

 

Yes, that's Jacob in an outfit his preschool put on him. 
My other kids were pretty upset, and I got lots of message to the effect that,
"Your other grandchildren are pretty cute too!"

Moved slowly this morning. Nothing wrong with me except that I felt sluggish, unwilling to face the day. Perhaps it was that unsettling dream I had between feeding Sophie and getting up for the day. I have that technique down to six minutes at my best (I remind myself of a barrel racer). I can let her out, dish out her food, rinse the spoon so it doesn’t stick, feed her, go to the bathroom, and be back in bed in six minutes. Some mornings I time myself—racing against my record. Usually this is about five-thirty, still hard dark.

Or maybe I didn’t sleep as well as usual. Sometimes about three in the morning my brain gets caught in a semi-awake, semi-asleep cycle in which I repeat a scene or plan over and over—it maybe a scene I plan to write, a recipe I want to cook. This morning it was a recipe.

But maybe I was unwilling to face a world that seems increasing loud and noisy. This week, I’m quite sure it’s all the loud noise trump is creating with his multiple, self-contradictory lies and excuses about the classified documents. In a week when the nation should be celebrating several significant victories of President Joe Biden, we’re being drown out by trump, while Biden goes quietly about the business of making America better.

Along political lines, in case you missed it, I can’t resist telling you about a campaign video by Dr. Oz that has recently resurfaced—to the great hilarity of his opponent, John Fetterman. Oz is in a grocery store—with Wegman’s in mind and the real name of the store, he comes out with Wegner’s, which is wrong. He’s shopping for crudities for his wife—as Fetterman points out, a lot of us call that a veggie tray. Trying to skewer Biden for inflation, Oz choses a head of broccoli, a package of asparagus, a ginormous bag of large carrots, a container of guacamole and one of salsa. Then he points out that a crudities tray costs $20. A store employee posted that employees repeatedly tried to tell him they had vegetable trays, with guac, available for $7.95. He said his wife likes salsa. Do you suppose she dips raw asparagus in it?

And speaking of food, I’ve noticed lately that the food memoir is a new thing. People are taking classes in exploring their deepest inner lives by focusing on what they eat/ate, particularly as children. It’s always nice to be on the cutting edge, so I’d like to point out that I wrote a food memoir, Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, way back in 2009, before it was trendy. I belong to a small online writing group where many write memoir, and I’ve always felt slightly deficient because I can’t seem to wrap my head around a traditional memoir. It’s not that I’m afraid of confronting some truths in my life, but it’s that I never can get the peg on which to hang it. In 2009 food was the peg. It’s kind of hard to find on Amazon, so if you’re interested, here’s the link:  Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books (Stars of Texas Series): Alter PhD, Dr. Judy: 9781933337333: Amazon.com: Books  You’ll not only find out more than you want to know about me, but you’ll get most of my family’s favorite recipes. Then again, a lot of water under the bridge since 2009.

As I write this, it’s six o’clock, and I think I’ve got my groove back. Everyone’s gone elsewhere for supper, so I’m thinking scrambled eggs sound good. My mom used to dump a spoonful of cottage cheese in them, and I think I’ll do that. Haven’t done it in a long time.

I read an anecdote today about a woman who was being shown to her room in a nursing room. “I know I shall be very happy there,” she said, and the attendant protested, “You haven’t even seen the room yet.” “No, but I know I’ll be happy there. Because I choose to be happy.” It’s a choice we each make daily—we can be happy or we can be miserable. Tomorrow I’ll get my happy back on. Tonight, I’ll read a mystery.

Frivolous Friday

 

Sometimes I keep track of random odd notes and things that catch my eye. So, today being a frivolous Friday, I thought I’d share some of these notes with you. Such as did you know there’s a hippopotamus crisis in Venezuela? I know, I hear you saying, “Wait a minute. Hippos live in Africa, not South America.” You’d be right—and wrong. In the eighties, a drug lord important four females and one male for his private zoo. As hippos will do, they mated and proliferated. Today the estimate is over a hundred of the beasts are roaming the countryside in a certain area, and they are a problem. There have been a few instances of them attacking humans, at least once doing serious damage. But beyond that, they ruin crops and their waste is polluting land and water.

Officials have tried sterilizing them—not an easy task—and there is talk of killing them. But here’s the funny part—locals have grown fond of the animals and a bit protective of them. They vociferously reject any eradication program. So I guess the hippos are happily wandering, extending their territory. And officials are wringing their hands in uncertainty. I think officials do that a lot.

Rye bread may seem like a petty thing to complain about, but I have a message for the Orowheat people: fix your seedless Jewish rye or else. I’m a big fan of not just any rye (though I like the deli rye at Carshon’s best of all) but from the grocery I want the Orowheat product. Only there’s been a flaw with the last several loaves—the top crust doesn’t stay attached to the whole slice, though it sometimes takes a bit of the upper slices of the bread with it. It’s as though there’s a faultline running through the loaf. Makes for a mess in the toaster and is impossible for a tuna salad sandwich.

Speaking of food, I saw a notice online recently for a class in writing the food memoir. Apparently that’s a hot new hybrid literary genre. Which means I was years ahead when I wrote Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, almost fifteen years ago. The cover features Jacob in a toque and chef’s jacket that his pre-school put him in for pictures. You should have heard my other children howl. They photoshopped the cover in weird ways and bragged that their own children were just as cute. “They weren’t wearing toques,” was my response. The book was fun because each of the kids contributed. A standard line was, “Remember when you fixed ….green noodles, beef and bean, Doris casserole.” All their favorites.

Are you a Jessica Fletcher fan? Murder, She Wrote and Cabot Cove? You can now access a website called Exploring Jessica Fletcher’s Closet. It seems Jessica—or Angela Lansbury—was a pretty conservative dresser but with a fondness for scarves. You can also visit her house and, of course, the town of Cabot Cove. A writer/colleague of mine is the new co-author of that series, and I’m a bit jealous. I think that would be lots of fun to write. I bet she knows all those websites by heart.

Did you read about the Army that descended on the White House this week? That’s what the fans of BTS are called—Armies—and there are a lot of them, most teenage girls of color. I confess that I am so out of it I never heard of BTS, the boy septet from South Korea. Apparently they are a worldwide hit, have won awards, given endorsements, and are a strong influence for good causes. They were at the White House to talk to the president about preventing hate crimes that target Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders.

And speaking of President Biden, I watched his gun speech last night and was tremendously impressed with his sincerity, honesty, compassion. I wonder if others were. I know he does not have a strong reputation as a public speaker—between the gaffes and impulses he’s prone to and the stuttering problem he fights—but I think his aides are wrong to keep him from speaking to the country. Seems to me if we saw him like that more often, his ratings might go up—as he deserves. I’m thinking of FDR’s Fireside Chats and how influential they were. Hmmm, Biden even has the requisite dog. ….

 

 

 

 

A moment of nostalgia, a visit, and a workday

 

Awful Waffles

Indulge me a moment, please. Jordan came across this picture of Jacob, and I couldn’t resist posting it. He will probably not be pleased, but….He loved waffles at that age, and when he asked for them, I jokingly asked if he wanted an “awful waffle.” He translated that into “waffle waffle,” and his parents couldn’t understand why he repeated the word twice. He was such a darn cute toddler—I told Jordan tonight we should have put a brick on his head. As it is, he is now a lanky teenager, taller than his dad and still growing, with this astoundingly deep voice.

Nice if brief visit from Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan at lunch today. They were on their way to ski in Colorado. Colin always, always wants lunch from the local deli where he’s been eating since he was a baby, but since we’re not ready yet to go into restaurants I suggested carry-out from Great Outdoors, our favorite sub shop. There was a mix-up in the order—they gave us five sandwiches when we ordered eight, but it was straightened out. Colin’s verdict was that it was good but not as good as the deli; my opinion is he ordered wrong—who orders a hot meatball sandwich from a sub shop? Should be meat and cheese and all the trimmings.

We have not seen them since July—thank you, pandemic—so it was a bonus to have even this brief visit. They are none of them vaccinated, though Lisa has had covid. They hugged us with masks on and assured me I didn’t need my mask—I put it on anyway, and we ate on the patio. They’ll come back through next Saturday—and we’ll get deli food.

Spent the rest of the day making notes to update my web page, something I should do more often—haven’t done it in a year. Many authors do their own pages, but I’m not that smart and have a wonderful young woman who does mine and can follow my squiggly notes of put this here and that there. This year, because of pandemic, there was slim pickings among new pictures to post—it seems we only take pictures when there’s company. I maybe need to deliberately take pictures of me at my desk, etc., but that would mean cleaning up the entire area. Next chore on my list: itemize my tax receipts etc. In Texas, we have an extension because of snowmageddon—until June 15. Still I am a little nervous I haven’t gotten the forms from my accountant yet.

Leftovers in the oven—last night’s dinner all over again tonight, even down to the blue cheese salad dressing. I didn’t think either the chicken casserole or the salad was that good—too bland—but Jordan has requested them again, so I tried to perk the salad dressing up with more vinegar and mustard. The chicken casserole simply needs salt and pepper. Win some, lose some. Lisa brought me a book titled Texas Tables, which I mistook for a book about table settings. Exploration proved it to be a Junior League Cookbook from Harris and Montgomery counties—lots of wonderful recipes for veal, lobster, lamb. Now I need the budget to go with it, but I did see some chicken recipes that looked good. I’ll be experimenting.

Busy week looms. Looking forward for a visit from Jamie and some happy hours with friends. Plus a desk full of chores. Life is good.

A Bookish Day

This is the blog I was too tired to write last night. Honestly, how can I be tired after a day of doing not much? The truth is I was reading a mystery I didn’t want to put down, and that sort of speaks for my day yesterday. It was bookish. So as you read, pretend it is last night.

After the heavy go of reading about Churchill and WWII I really longed for a good cozy (not cute!) in whose pages I could get lost. Thanks to Susan Van Kirk for A Death at Tippitt Pond. I did indeed get lost in the world of this novel and was reluctant to stop turning digital pages. The plot is not new: a young woman (in this case, forty-seven, not so young) finds out she was adopted as an infant and has now inherited a fortune from her biological family. The story opens with her having traveled from NYC to the mansion in the small, Illinois town where, apparently, she was born. And, no surprise—she is attracted to the single-again chief of police. Before you yawn and say, “Been there, read that,” let me tell you that Van Kirk takes these familiar elements and creates a compelling mystery. Did Beth Russell’s biological father really kill her mother that summer day at Tippitt Pond all those years ago? Why does someone keep breaking into the house, and how do they get in? Why is a stranger watching her house from the woods across the street?

Beth Russell, an independent researcher, is just insecure enough that you like her. Yet she’s bright and holds her own in a town where most people want her to go back to NYC. Other characters are equally believable, from Kyle the police chief, to the senator who looks to me like the bad guy. I haven’t finished this book yet, but I did stay up way too late last night reading it.

And I’m on the trail of a mysterious cookbook that a friend told me about. Catherine Morro, daughter of a TCU prof, herself a student until eye strain forced her to quit, apparently was known for chicken sandwiches which she sold from a now-disappeared local pharmacy. Here’s the strange part: in 1980, University Christian Church published a collection of her recipes. That’s my church, but so far, I haven’t found anyone who knows anything about it. And a church publishing an individual’s cookbook? I can imagine a collection of recipes from women in the congregation, but not one cook. I’m partly curious because Morro apparently made congealed salads, so popular in the day, by cooking in a water bath instead of using gelatin as I do. Thanks to Anne Kane for putting me on this trail.

And, finally, a nice find yesterday—a woman I knew several years ago as an administrator at TCU has retired from academic life and is writing a private investigator series of mysteries set in Harlem. I wrote her a note, she wrote back, and we exchanged a few emails, friended each other on Facebook. I hope to keep in touch with Delia Pitts. Check out her Ross Agency Mysteries. Brand new title is The Prince and the Pauper in Harlem.

Discovering Delia (does that sound like a book  title?) gave me a stray thought for these quarantine days. Maybe I should check in on Kelly O’Connell and see how she and Mike, Keisha and the girls are handling the pandemic. (That’s for you, Elaine Williams Gray!)

A blessed Palm Sunday to everyone.

A demolition report and a day with lots of irons in the fire

It’s really nice to have a son-in-law who pays attention o my books. Brandon sent this demolition picture with the explanation that they found a dead space next to grandson Sawyer’s closet but, alas, there was no skeleton. Some may remember that my first mystery was Skeleton in a Dead Space; that dead space, like the one in my house, was in the kitchen. Haven’t read it? I think it’s one of my best mysteries. And I love that Brandon saw the connection.

Megan reported about five that grandson Ford and friends were having fun tearing out walls, and she was going home to join them. So demolition proceeds but apparently won’t be total for a couple of weeks. Meantime, what excitement for teen boys.

And the local teen is fishing with his grandfather. He called to ask if the tanks on his uncle’s ranch are stocked. The answer is yes, years ago, but the only way to find out if there are still fish is to go fishing. Jacob said we’d plan a day at the ranch, but then he said, “Juju, when you say tanks, do you mean the ponds?” I told him tank is Texas-speak for pond, and he would have to work on his vocabulary.

For me, a busy day, which I like. When I was in my late teens, I was my father’s secretary—he was administrator of a hospital. I always swore that experience made me a perfect executive secretary, though heaven forbid we should refer to a woman that way today. But I can clear a desk of lots of projects in one big sweep. And I like it that way.

Today I met with a co-conspirator about forming a local group of Better Angels, the national organization that brings together people of opposing political opinions for moderated discussions—no arguing, no proselytizing, just learning from one another. I pretty much secured our church as a meeting place and began to compile a list of interested participants—if you’re interested, please let me know. I set in motion a blog tour for my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, and committed to write five blogs by early April. I emailed my accountant that I had finished my tax organizer and was ready to turn it over to him. I straightened out some prescription confusion--always a time-consuming chore as you get left on hold. But the biggie was that I got the edits back on the Alamo manuscript, which means I have a lot to do immediately—dealing with edits, adding some new material, and compiling a complete list of photos. I actually love waking up in the morning and knowing that projects like this are waiting for me.

The mystery I’ve been doodling along goes to one side, though I did make enough notes that I would know where to pick it up. A good day, and I’m a happy camper.

Taking Stock

New Yer's Eve gaiety with Jordan

and her BFF from high school, David

Oh, how hard it is to remember to write 2019! Soon it will become automatic, but today I must think carefully. Seems to me as we look optimistically toward the new year, it’s a good time to look back and take stock of what happened in 2018. Most folks seem to agree that for a variety of reasons it was a bummer of a year.

Nationally, it was a year beyond belief and not in a good way--one increasingly outrageous act after another, one false tweet followed upon another. But there were hopeful signs—Donald trump’s presidency seems like one of those endangered species that he so wantonly removes hunting restrictions on—it’s endangered and crumbling; the NRA’s hold on America is also crumbling, thanks to some courageous teenage survivors of a horrendous mass shooting; the Republican stranglehold on Congress has been broken—I realize whether or not that is good depends on your personal point of view, but to me that is cause for rejoicing. I have a great deal of confidence in Nancy Pelosi, for whom I will use an unladylike phrase—she’s a tough old broad.

For me personally, health matters were once again prominent in my concerns, and again, there was good news and bad. Recovery from my bizarre and complicated 2017 hip surgery found me stronger every day. I have accepted the doctor’s suggestion that the walker is now my lifetime companion and focused on getting as good on the walker as I can. These days I’m fairly good at collapsing the walker, stashing it in the car, and driving away—I can do errands alone, which is a relief to both me and Jordan. And the atrial fibrillation which flared in 2017 seems under control, but in 2018 eye surgery for an implanted lens that went wandering proved to be an ordeal. I had just gotten over that when I began to feel negative about food. Turns out intolerance to a heart med led to “acute renal failure”—not the way I wanted to lose 15 lbs. I didn’t eat, slept a lot, and didn’t care one whit about my writing—the latter tells you I really felt bad. But thankfully that is all behind me. One more hurdle to jump in my ongoing effort to prove to doctors that I am healthy. I swear they keep finding one more thing that “we really have to investigate.” Meantime, I am feeling strong, healthy, and happy.

And 2018 was a landmark year for me—I turned 80. Don’t feel it, hope I don’t look it, though it’s hard not to act it on a walker. Jordan engineered three wonderful days of partying, and all the kids came, along with many many friends. But a planned Great Lakes cruise later in the summer had to be cancelled for health reasons.

A side note: I am heartened by the kindness of people when they see me on the walker, from those who hold doors to the grocery people who worry that a sack may be too heavy and all those who simply smile and say hello as they pass by. Americans are generally good, kind, caring people despite the turmoil in our country and what sometimes seems a prevailing climate of hate and racism.

My writing career took a tumble and a turn this year. In the spring I published a Kelly O’Connell Mystery, Contract for Chaos, but it landed with a thud and needs love to this day—it’s about racism, so I thought it timely. The few who’ve read it often say it’s one of the best Kelly novels, but it hasn’t caught fire. I am proud of the cookbook I published in November, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, an outgrowth of my learning a different way of cooking in the cottage with a tiny kitchen and no stove. I’m trying to build an audience for a related blog. I want tiny kitchen cooks to share their recipes, concern, ideas, etc. Turns out many single people say the cookbook is great for meals for one. Possibly because I have little room for dinner guests and most of my entertaining these days is at happy hour. Consequently, the book has lots of appetizers.

But my career took a major turn when I inherited the “second battle of the Alamo” project. It’s a big deal for me to write under contract to a major publisher and on a subject that fascinates me, but I am tremendously saddened that it came about because of the death of an incredibly vital and energetic woman who I called a friend. When Debra Winegarten realized the seriousness of her cancer diagnosis, she called and asked me to write the book she had under contract. The publisher was agreeable, and Debra’s wife sent me all her massive research materials. So, since September I’ve spent my days deep in Alamo history. The book will be a tribute to Debra, who passed away in September.

For the time being, the Alamo book marks at least a temporary end to my mystery writing and return to my first love—the history of women in the American West. The book will take the first half of 2019 and maybe longer, and where I’ll wander after that is up in the air. I toy sometimes with the idea of mysteries based on the real-life people of the second battle (think Daughters of the Republic of Texas) but no aha! moment has hit yet.

So that’s my year, a mixed bag of good and not-so-good. How about you? Have you taken stock of 2018? Are you feeling the general optimism about 2019?

Busy days, beautiful weather, and peanut butter

Peanut butter, mayonnaise, and lettuce

Have you ever tried it?

I have been overwhelmed, in a nice way, with projects that landed on my desk—the ongoing, bit project is the Alamo book, but I’ve also been trying to promote Gourmet on a Hot Plate, write a book review, make Christmas plans and wrap some presents, and get ready to pack for a few days at one of my sons’ houses. All this is a left-handed way of apologizing because I haven’t blogged regularly. I hope it will get better, but the days ahead look hectic—and lots of fun.

And so much for Jacob who asked if I just sit out here at my desk and scroll through Facebook all day. Or Christian, who suggested that the reason I worry about weeds, etc., is because I have more time on my hands to think about such things. I told him no. I’ve always been that way.

Today was a beautiful day, and I set out to do a grocery curbside pickup. Such a pretty day I went my usual route on the zoo road—just when the zoo was disgorging all the people who had spent the lovely day there. Gridlock. Then I went to a drive-in to pick up a barbecue sandwich for supper—and got behind an SUV of people who didn’t know what they wanted and spent way too long studying the billboard menu, holding up the whole line. And I swear I hit every long red light—me, who goes back roads to avoid red lights! It was an exercise in patience, but I’m glad to report patience won.

My exciting discovery of the day came when I found an article certifying the peanut butter, mayonnaise, and lettuce sandwich as a southern food. It was like the sandwich which I’ve eaten all my life had suddenly been given legitimacy. So the story goes, the sandwich was developed during the Depression when meat was dear and scarce. Peanut butter provided needed protein. I remember an internist telling me he’d rather I ate peanut butter than steak because I’d eat so much less.

A local food historian told me today that she believes there are some foods that southerners tend to eat more of—pimiento cheese, for instance—but she doesn’t think there are any distinctly southern foods. Still, the internet disagrees with her and has labeled the sandwich southern. I grew up in Chicago eating such sandwiches—one of my sons loves them, but the other kids turn up their noses, and I haven’t tried it on grandkids.

Making the sandwich should be a no-brainer, but if you need directions, you can find them here: https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/136568/peanut-butter-mayonnaise-and-lettuce-sandwich/

Ever have those middle of the night thoughts? The other night I thought of two things I wanted to check on the computer. I’m not the kind to pop up at three a.m. and check the internet. Besides I told myself I’d remember. Next morning, I did remember one of the things—a book for one of my sons. But the other eluded me—and still does. It was a word, a noun I’m sure, and it began with an H, I think. But all I can come up with is Hanratty—he was a famous murderer, so I don’t think that was it. I’ll keep thinking.

Cold tomorrow. Bundle up if you go to church.

Cookbook launch day!

Today was launch day for my third cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate: Tiny Kitchen Tips and Recipes. The tips and recipes combine my lifelong love of cooking, wisdom and practicality of my mom, and my experience of cooking in a tiny kitchen for over two years. No stove, no microwave, no InstaPot, no air fryer. Just me, my hot plate, my toaster oven, and an electric coffeepot.

Gone, for me, are the days of elaborate meals for twenty, the Coquille St. Jacque for eight (the most complicated recipe I ever followed, I think, but it was a roaring success—a friend said she’d traveled the world and never had a better meal.) These days I entertain for happy hour—some great appetizer recipes—and light suppers, like skillet stroganoff or a cold salmon and potato salad platter. There are new and different salads, including a section on composed salads—no, not Jell-O salads from the sixties. A chef friend tells me the most valuable part of the whole book is my clear explanation of charcuteries, cheese platters, and antipasto and how to create them. Confession: there are no dessert recipes, since I cannot make a pie to save my life, though I made a good apple crisp for a guest the other night and have been known to make a galette of mixed berries.

The “mom” part. My mother was a tremendous cook, and she set the pattern for large dinner parties, often cooking for my dad’s professional colleagues. Mom encouraged me in the kitchen, and by the time I was ten or twelve I was her sous chef and dishwasher. While she sparkled at the dinner table, I cleaned the kitchen—and loved doing it. To this day, I clean as I cook—can’t stand to be faced with a disaster of a kitchen late at night, or heaven forbid, the next morning.

Mom loved the story of a childless friend who came by while a girlfriend and I were making cookies. I hadn’t learned the clean-up lesson yet, and the kitchen was a mess—cabinets open, dishes piled in the sink, flour everywhere. The visitor asked, “How can you let them make such a mess?” Mom replied, “If I don’t, they’ll never learn to cook.”

Finally, there’s my cottage cooking. It was my choice not to have a microwave or InstaPot—my brother actually gave me the latter, but I gave it to my daughter and her husband (he’s the real cook). Counter space is just too limited. I’ve learned to cook on what I have—and to reheat leftovers, which is trickier. The first time Jordan and I tried to use the hot plate was hysterical—we put a lamb chop in the pan, pressed the heat button, and waited. Nothing. Jordan poked, she held her hand over it to feel the heat, she jiggled the pan. Then we saw the start button!

An ultimate compliment on my cooking: my former prof and current writing mentor—we’ve been friends for forty years--occasionally came for lunch when I was housebound, and he said once that he continued to be amazed at the meals I turn out. It’s all in the cookbook.

Now, having raved about cooking, it’s a breakfast-for-dinner (brinner) kind of an evening. I see bacon and scrambled eggs on my menu tonight. It’s been a lazy day—I got the cookbook up and for sale, though I had a bit of trouble with platforms other than Amazon, and I spent much of the day working on my Alamo book. Sophie spent a rigorous day defending me from the neighbor’s chickens, those vicious things😊 And, yes, I’m still in my pjs. A delicious day in a lot of ways.

Get Gourmet on a Hot Plate in print or ebook at https://www.amazon.com/Gourmet-Hot-Plate-KItchen-Recipes-ebook/dp/B07JC75FC5/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1542326849&sr=1-1&keywords=gourmet+on+a+hot+plate&dpID=418DO2VvEpL&preST=_SY445_QL70_&dpSrc=srch

Soup’s on! (on the hot plate, that is)

Our chilly damp weather continues. Yesterday afternoon it occurred to me that it is definitely soup weather. So I made a clean sweep of the freezer, scooping up a bit of corn, both beef and chicken broth, a serving of beef and barley soup, and I’m not sure what else. This morning I added a can of tomatoes (turned out to be whole plum tomatoes when I wanted diced, but I didn’t discover that until I’d opened the can), some egg noodles, the peas and carrots combo from last night’s supper. Cooked it all morning at a low simmer—I have to watch because the hot plate turns itself off every so often and for long cooking, I have to go re-start it.

When my kids were young, we called this soup of the week. They used to identify Monday’s meal, the stew from Tuesday, the hamburger casserole from Wednesday. And it always came out sort of tannish brown, often that muddy color author Dan Jenkins called the color of Texas food. Today my soup was a rich brown because of the tomatoes and beef broth.

A good friend was coming to pick me up for lunch, but I surprised her with my pot of soup. She appeared delighted, and we had a good quiet visit without contending with restaurant clatter and chatter. She said her late husband used to make what they called “leftover soup,” and if it came out especially delicious, she warned everyone to enjoy it now because it could never be duplicated. It never does come out quite the same way.

It’s sort of appropriate that I made soup on the hot plate today because I’m excited to announced that my new cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate: Tiny Kitchen Tips and Recipes is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/Gourmet-Hot-Plate-KItchen-Recipes-ebook/dp/B07JC75FC5/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1539811421&sr=1-1&keywords=Gourmet+on+a+hot+plate It will be for sale November 15. Right now, you can only pre-order the digital version but on publication day it will also be available in paperback.

So if you’re wondering how I cook a full meal with a hot plate and a toaster oven or how I make tzatziki or why I put a pinch of sugar in spaghetti sauce, the cookbook has your answers.

In November, I’ll announce an ongoing blog page where I’ll add recipes and welcome your comments, recipes, and suggestions so we can have a conversation. Putting together a cookbook is fun but there are always those recipes you come across later and wish you’d included. And some I either haven’t had time or nerve to try, like Cacio de Pepe, literally cheese and pepper pasta—think Parmesan and Pecorino.

Stay warm and dry, folks.

The critter in my walls

Sophie has discovered a critter in the wall in my bathroom, in the tiny space between the commode and the shower. At least, that’s all I can think because she periodically goes berserk, rushes into the bathroom, and barks furiously at the wall. My calming words come to nothing.

The idea of a critter alarms me for several reasons. Fort Worth, like most cities, has rats all over. We live near a zoo, a park, and a creek. There are chickens right behind me, and I’ve seen rats on the fence, heard them squeaking at night in the trees. I’ve had rats in my belfry, rats in my attic, and, yes, rats in my walls. Two or three times they have died in my walls, an experience not to be forgotten. The stench is awful, and there’s not much you can do except wait for it to go away.

I remember once when the Texas Institute of Letters held their annual meeting in Fort Worth. I invited some that I was close to for brunch the following Sunday morning. The rat probably died Thursday, maybe Wednesday. By Sunday, the odor was in full bloom. And it was in the dining room wall. I served an elegant brunch, if I do say so, and hoped no one said anything. Classy bunch of people, I never heard a comment.

I don’t know this is a rat. Could it be a snake? There is no visible way anything could get from inside the wall to the house, though I intend to call the contractor tomorrow and ask about that. Tonight, I just hope that Sophie sleeps through the night without feeling the need to defend us against that critter.

Jordan and I both went to the doctor today for blood work. On the way home, we stopped at a well-known place that offers take-out food as well as catering. I’d always heard their King Ranch casserole was good, so we bought two—Jordan insisted one would not feed Jacob and anyone else. My opinion: delicious flavor but it was more like King Ranch soup. Should have been served in bowls. Next time, I’ll do it. I make a darn good King Ranch casserole.

My cookbook got a step closer to reality today. With the help of Melinda, production manager for TCU Press, my longtime friend and former employee, who told me where to send the files to have them converted so that I can offer the book on various digital platforms, including Kindle. Wish I understood all that stuff more. But fun note—the person she referred me to has been with that Austin company since the days when I first started at TCU Press—early 1980s. And we did business back then. Company name has changed but still the same outfit. Small world.

And I’m still struggling to save the Alamo—again! Busy day and I’m sleepy.

Cooking with Mom

My mom has been gone thirty years, and yet she’s still in the kitchen with me. I’ve been proofreading my new cookbook—Gourmet on a Hot Plate, due out in November--and there are reminders of Mom on so many pages—recipes, household hints, etc.

I can’t tell you how many times she cautioned me that food is half eaten with the eye. She taught me to put a pinch of sugar in any tomato-based sauce to “round it off,” to put a splash of vinegar in the water when I boil eggs so they don’t leak out of the shell, to stick cloves of garlic in tiny slits in a roast before cooking it.

I still use her recipes (never written down) for things like wilted lettuce salad or devilled eggs or stuffed mushrooms or salmon patties—okay, I’ve varied that one a bit. Today I had diced tomatoes with butter and crushed saltines for lunch. Jordan’s immediate reaction was, “Yuck,” but she quickly added, “I’m happy for you if you like it.” I do. It’s comfort food my mom used to make.

Then in a bit Jordan asked me to add a certain brand of sweetener to the weekly grocery order, and as I did I thought how strange Mom would find that. She was an Adele Davis fan. Davis was a nutritionist, popular in the mid-20-century. Her basic approach was to stay fit through eating right—and that did not include additives, supplements, etc. It meant eat healthy, natural foods Mom would not understand a sweetener powder, because she would have used sugar. She would understand, as one family does not, my insistence on grating my own cheese—they don’t believe me that the pre-grated in the store has wood fiber to keep it from clumping. Don’t relay on me for that one—I got it straight from the cheese monger.

One of my favorite stories, handed down by Mom, involves the time my parents took a friend and me on a convention trip. In the hotel cafeteria, we girls ordered spinach, but Mom noticed Eleanor Lee wasn’t eating hers. She asked what the matter was, and Eleanor Lee wrinkled her nose and said, “I think it’s fresh.” We were used to canned spinach. Mom went off into one of her well-known laughter fits.

When I think about my kids, I realize how different their eating patterns are. One son’s wife is a representative of a line of prepared seasonings--she has mixes for everything from meatloaf and ranch dressing to apple pie. Much of it is delicious, though I can’t help worrying about preservatives.  Another son drinks far too many diet drinks, no matter how I lecture about the evils of aspartame and the looming specter of dementia. Jordan—and to some extent her sister—eschews carbs. There are several good, old-fashioned casseroles that she won’t eat because, you know, fattening.

I’m an old-fashioned cook, like my mom, and in these my golden years I sometimes long for the days when I cooked for a crowd (four kids is a crowd; add some relatives, and you’ve got a production). As I explain in the cookbook, I don’t want the newest gadgets—Insta Pot, air fryer, etc. To me, they just put a machine between me and the food. If I want to make a pot of soup, I’ll simmer it all day--I’m lucky I have the time to do that.

Here’s a recipe I long to make It would feed Coxey’s Army, but my local army won’t eat it.

Cheesy, creamy beef noodle casserole

6 oz. egg noodles

2 lb. ground beef

1 medium onion, chopped,

3 Tbsp. garlic

Salt and pepper to taste

Sliced mushrooms – optional

1 can each – cream of mushroom and cream of chicken soup

1 can corn, drained

1 c. grated cheddar (more of you wish)

1 sleeve buttery crackers (I use Ritz), crushed

½ stick butter

Cook egg noodles and set aside

Brown beef with garlic, salt and pepper, and mushrooms. Drain

Add noodles to beef mixture along with soups and corn. Sprinkle with grated cheese.

Mix crackers with one half stick butter, melted; distribute evenly on casserole.

Cook 30 minutes, uncovered, at 350. Enjoy! I never said it’s good for your waistline.

No, it’s not one of my mom’s recipes, but she’d have approved. Cooking with canned soups never bothered her at all.

Watch for the cookbook in November. Meantime, bon appetit! Okay, Julia I’m not.