Hiding in the kitchen

Sophie as a lap dog
She is doing so much better, but with
occasional worrisome moments.
Still, I am grateful.

A writer’s group I belong to has been tossing out ideas about spirituality and following your path and reaching toward the divine—and it all leaves me feeling sort of lost in the wilderness. To aspire to closeness to the divine would be, to me, audacious. Yes, I talk to the Lord every night about what’s gone on in my day, what’s going on in the world, and so forth. That is an entirely different subject, though I’ve talked a lot about the recent fatal shooting near our high school. As the story comes out, it grows more distressing. But that’s not my subject for tonight.

One woman wrote recently that she found calm, strength, whatever from dabbling with watercolors—and that triggered something in my mind. I may not meditate—I  have never been able to quiet my busy mind enough. And sometimes, at four in the morning, I find myself obsessively concerned with one thing or another. One night recently it was a puzzling communication from the IRS (any communication from them is at the least puzzling, at the worst frightening). Last night my thoughts kept circling back to my cardiologist’s office over the matter of a $45 reimbursement—sure I want the $45 back, but in the larger scheme of things it’s not that much money. But still, try as I might, I could not divert my thoughts to something else and surely not to sleep. But in all this it has dawned on me that when I find calm, when I come the closest to meditating, is in my tiny kitchen when I’m cooking. You knew I’d get around to cooking, didn’t you?

I’ve been doing some creative cooking recently. Saturday night Jean came for supper. I’d had such a week with Sophie that I wasn’t sure I could dredge up the energy or imagination for an experimental dinner, though Jean is always open to my experiments. I intended to make tuna pasties, but it was mid-day Saturday before I got puff pastry from my family-run grocery delivery service. So I opted for something easy. I know Jean loves lamb as much as I do, and I had a pound of ground lamb in the freezer. We would have burgers with a three-bean salad. Turned out great, and I have had lamb burgers for lunch for two days. Each time I thought I’d only eat half but that proved untrue.

Last night, Christian and I collaborated on a roast chicken with chimichurri sauce. Our deal was I’d make the sauce—chopping all those herbs—and he’d spatchcock the chicken and roast it. So in the morning I measured out two packed cups of cilantro and two more of parsley (do you know how much that is? A lot!). What made it less of a chore was that I got out the food processor (I usually use the hand mini version) and used it. And I followed directions, doing things a step at a time (as opposed to my usual method of thinking I know a shortcut). Not only was it easy, but minced herbs didn’t fly all over the kitchen. I coated the chicken with chimichurri, and we let it marinate for several hours, and then served the extra sauce with it. Delicious!

Later in the evening I discovered that in their zeal to get Sophie to eat, Jordan and Christian had hand fed her a whole lot of that chicken. Thank goodness they scraped the chimichurri off first—garlic is hard on dog’s stomachs, and it was just spicy enough she didn’t need it. I now have some chicken in my fridge, but I am uncertain if it is for me or the dog. She has been ravenously eating dog food all day, so I am hoping for chicken and bean salad for lunch tomorrow.

I seem to have mostly single women as friends, no surprise at my age and single status. But, blessedly, several of them are open to eating anything. So Mary (not my Tuesday night Mary but another) came for supper tonight. When she walked in the door I asked, “Do you eat sardines?” and she said of course. So we had a hodgepodge plate: baguette slices, toasted, rubbed with garlic and buttered, layered with sliced tomato, chopped sardines, sweet onion, and drizzled with olive oil and lemon. This was accompanied by an egg mayo each (known internationally as ouefs mayo—there’s even a society devoted to preservation of the dish). It’s a hard-boiled egg, sliced in half, set cut side down on the plate, and coated with mayonnaise (in this case thinned with a bit of buttermilk and garnished with minced basil). Finally I split an avocado, sliced it, and put half on each plate. 

The sardine/egg/avocado plate
for tonight's supper

Can you tell I have fun in the kitchen? In a week or so, Jordan is going to be gone for several days on a work trip, and I will feed Christian and Jacob—mostly Jacob, because Christian has some evening work responsibilities. Watch for a dramatic change in the menus. Pigs in a blanket, anyone?

Election anxiety prolonged

 

Jordan and me in our matching shirts

No one should be surprised that the election is too close to call this Wednesday morning and may be that way for several days, in spite of trump’s premature and unfounded announcement of victory in the wee hours. What surprises me is how drained I feel, exhausted, worn out. I am staring at the TV and trying to make myself do some work at the same time.

Election night at first seemed a gay lark in the cottage. We had an early supper—Jordan fixed lemon/chicken/pesto pasta because she wanted a simple meal—from the number of pots and pans I put away this morning, I’d say it was anything but simple. But it was delicious. Jordan and Jacob settled down with a jigsaw puzzle, and Christian left for the peace and quiet of their house. I was the one who suggested the puzzle, but I stayed firmly rooted to my computer and the TV. Eventually, Jordan and Jacob had to take breaks—and I even took a nap, though Sophie was not cooperative.

As states were called for Republicans, I grew increasingly depressed. I knew better than to hope for that much-vaunted blue wave, but nonetheless the thought was there. Clearly, it didn’t happen. I’ve been noticing for some time that Jacob, although favoring Biden, doesn’t see a whole lot wrong with trump. For distraction last night, I took it on myself to educate him. His explanation made some sense: “I just got interested in politics because of the pandemic.” That means, though, there is much history to catch him up on. He laughed a lot as I rattled off incidents and problems--I suspect he was laughing at his grandmother’s intensity. I am now in search of the perfect email or Facebook post that summarizes what I want him to know.

I didn’t sleep well. Insomnia is not one of my problems, but the last few nights I’ve wakened about three in the morning, beset by obsessive worries. Last night, of course, it was the conviction that while I slept trump was winning—well, he was indeed declaring victory, just not winning. There was one mental image that I kept going back to though for the life of me this morning I can’t remember what it was. Another night recently I was fixated, again about three, with those audio files. When my mind latches on to a problem at that hour, I seem to be unable to distract myself. I try to puzzle out other subjects or write something brilliant, but my mind snaps back like a rubber band. Occasionally I wake with obsessive COVID-19 worries.

Then, typically, around five, I feel a great sense of calm, and I sleep. This morning I dreamt that Christian and I were on the front porch of my childhood home (where he has never been)—he was studying tax information and I had Reader’s Digest in my mind—haven’t read that for sixty years or more! What interests me in retrospect is that there were two huge bulldozers in the narrow street around the park in front of the house and they were so noisy—I guess my dreams are audiovisual! Sophie woke me at  seven, far too soon. She was full of joy, racing around the yard, while I sat and tried to wish her inside so I could go back to sleep.

It may be a long week, folks.

Eating for good luck

2020 is one day old. How’s it treating you so far? My year got off to a rocky start, I think because I was so smug about being in bed asleep at midnight. I was in bed, all right, but I could not fall asleep—something that rarely happens to me. I hope it’s not an omen. Then this morning I unpacked my new remote keyboard but could not find the USB connector anywhere—I spent far too long sifting and sorting through packing materials, sure that I’d missed it because it’s so small. Finally I called Amazon and got instant help. The manufacturers are so clever these days—it was inside the battery compartment of the mouse. Who knew? Now it works fine.

But the day and the year got a lot better when I went to early afternoon dinner at the home of neighbors Mary and Joe. A lavish spread, starting with cheese and vegetables with dip and herring for appetizers. I can’t resist herring, but these were large pieces. Turns out they were rollmops—herring rolled around a pickle. Supposed to bring good luck for the year.

There had been some consternation about black-eyed peas in my family. When I first moved to Texas, I confronted the tradition of black-eyed peas and ham on New Year’s Day. I didn’t think I liked those peas—I was from the North, you know—but one year I found a recipe I thought my family would eat—Hoppin’ John. I’m sure you know, but just in case: it’s a stew of black-eyed peas, ham, rice, sometimes tomato. Today another guest had brought some, so I      got double good luck—rollmops and peas. Fast forward fifty-some years, and my family and I are just like most Texans—we want our black-eyed peas on January 1.

Many cultures have traditions about lucky foods you eat on New Year’s Day. The black-eyed peas are obviously from the American South, often served with collard greens. And some folks boil a silver dollar in with them—I think I draw the line at that. Another southern food eaten for luck is cornbread. Pork, or ham, is regarded as lucky in the South, as well as in many cultures.

Mary tells me that rollmops for luck were served in her childhood home, which was heavily influenced by German traditions and foods. In Spain, they eat grapes; in Italy, lentils. Some cultures consider round foods good luck, sort of as in “coming full circle.” Or maybe because they’re shaped like coins. In Japan, they eat soba noodles at midnight December 31 and call it toshi-koshi, “from one year to another.”

Today sumptuous dinner was the German dinner of Mary’s childhood: roast pork loin with gravy, applesauce, sauerkraut, tiny purple potatoes, peas and mushrooms, a butter lettuce salad, and multigrain bread. Dessert was crème brulee. If that menu is an omen of the year to come, I’ll take it gladly. Everything was absolutely delicious.

I am not used to that big a meal any time of day but especially not mid-afternoon. When I cam home, about 4:30, I was uncertain what to do with the rest of my day. So what I’ve done is nothing constructive—my ambition seemed to have fled. I’ve got to stop taking everything about today as an omen for the new year, because in general I’m enthusiastic about several projects on my desk for coming days.

I hope each and every one of you had a safe and sane New Year’s Eve, a happy day today with whatever you think brings you luck. Out with the old and in with the new—may you be happy the whole year through. And may we take back our country and heal the divisions that tear us apart.

Insomnia

It’s happens to all of us. In fact, friends and I talked about it at dinner last night. Maybe that’s what jinxed me. More likely it was the fact that I went to bed much earlier than usual. Ten o’clock, and I slept soundly until one. But then there I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. One friend had said the worst thing you can do is think about things. But how do you turn your mind off? I have never been able to meditate or focus on my mantra—do I have one?—for that reason. My mind is a busy little critter that darts hither and yon.

I discovered last night that thinking about our country’s current political situation, with what I see as a huge move toward a police state—federal executions to resume, ICE can stop anyone anywhere and demand identification—is not a pathway to sleep. (That new ruling, expanding ICE powers, reminds me of a man I knew who grew up in Columbia, had lived in the States for many years, and was still terrified to leave his home without his identification—this long before trump’s insane deportation policies.)

So I thought about the manuscript I’m working on and the passage I hoped to write today. Medium good. But my thoughts drifted. I thought about the things I want to cook this weekend, and my grandson due home from camp tomorrow, and the dinner with friends I’d just had. I thought about a forthcoming trip to New Mexico and whether or not altitude would affect my A Fib, although two doctors’ offices have assured me it will not. As you can see, some of these are comforting subjects and some are not.

Finally about five o’clock I drifted into a restless sleep and dreamt that my youngest son had misbehaved badly. Poor thing—as far as I know he’s been a model of good behavior. Well, most of the time.

A 6:45 Sophie wanted to go out, and after she came in, I thought about trying to sleep but I knew it was useless. Jordan had said we’d go to the grocery at 8:30, and I needed to be ready. When she came out, she took one look at me and asked, “What’s wrong?” It’s bad enough to feel out of kilter but knowing it’s obvious to someone who knows you well only makes it worse.

You know that saying often associated with Hillary Clinton? “But nonetheless, she persisted”? Well, that’s what I did. I soldiered on. Went to the grocery. Spent too long on the phone with the public library trying to sort out a web access problem, less time but still too much trying to sort out a Central Market order—I have to say in both cases the people on the other end of the line were charming, helpful, and kind. Wrote the passage stored in my mind, tried to make pesto and figured out my counter-size processor won’t do it, poached chicken breasts because I’ve decided that’s easier than de-boning a rotisseries chicken, ate a salmon pattie for dinner and wondered when I would remember that the ones I make at home are much better than the ones I get even from a sophisticated take-out counter.

Yeah, It wasn’t a bad day, but I sure would like to sleep soundly tonight. I hope each and every one of you sleep hard and have pleasant dreams tonight.

Three o’clock in the morning

Three o’clock in the morning is a wicked hour. Something wakes you from a sound sleep—you don’t know what—and you lie there, sleepless, restless, too hot, too cold, miserable. Everything looks worse at that dark hour—the scary is scarier, the worrisome now a real burden, an impending problem, a catastrophe.

That’s where I was last night, my mind racing from one problem to another. Somehow, I harnessed all that energy and came up with semi-satisfactory solutions to the problems on my mind.

First, there was a friend who lost her husband, a man I liked a lot though I didn’t know him well. She lives in Weatherford, so I can’t exactly pop in with the proverbial casserole and a hug. I needed to write, but those words are so hard to come by. Finally in the night I put together words that I thought would come close to expressing my concern and sorrow for her without being maudlin. Then, of course, I had to write the note in my mind a dozen times to be sure I didn’t forget it in the morning. No, heaven forbid that I should get up and write it down. Then I’d be awake until tomorrow night.

Next, I got to thinking about Representative Green and the motion for impeachment that he filed late yesterday. Talk about something that looms as a disaster in the middle of the night! This could be a brilliant move or a terrible one. It could expose the president’s crimes and treason (and the blatant racism he denies but even the courts have confirmed) or it could result in voters flocking to his defense as he plays the pitiful card. He has been distracting us with concentration camps, deportations, racial slurs on Congresswomen, much of it one suspects to deflect from any involvement in Epstein’s sordid crimes. But if faced with impeachment, to what drastic distractions would he resort? I have seen reports from members of the American Psychiatric Association, and they are not reassuring. In the dark of the night, I wondered if the 25^th  Amendment might not have been a better approach. I decided I can’t solve this one and must leave it to the Lord. Still I resolved to find as positive a spin as I can and to encourage others to do so.

The ruined carpet in my bedroom, stained and torn from an a/c leak, will be replaced with hardwoods the week of the 29^th. That means I must have movers take and store two heavy pieces of furniture—a mahogany bed frame and a marble-topped buffet—and that means I have to empty drawers. As I tossed and turned I saw ways that I could do that bit by bit. And this morning I actually emptied two sock drawers in the sewing stand which serves as a bedside table.

But having workmen also means I have to find something to do with Sophie. I contemplated taking my computer into the house and keeping her there. But taking the computer back and forth a lot is a pain, since I require help to do it. I sort of convinced myself that I will get her crate from the attic and keep it by my desk. She really likes her crate, and I think she’ll be reassured if she can see me. And I’ll placate her with frequent treats.

Having solved all those problems, I did fall asleep and dreamt I was cleaning up an unusually messy kitchen. That’s not an unusual dream for me, but I sometimes wonder about the psychological meaning of it. Do I go through life cleaning up messes? In reality, I’m one of those cooks who cleans as I go.

So what do you worry about at three o’clock in the morning?

Storms, daylight savings, and insomnia plus a nice dinner

Hard to get out of bed this morning. It was a rough night. Somewhere between three and four, the warning sirens went off, the thunder rolled, the wind blew—up to 70 mph we’re told. I’m not sure why, but in the cottage, everything has an amplified sound—the wind and the rain, although I didn’t hear the sirens. But I lay awake listening to the moaning of the wind, the drumming of the rain. Sophie stayed right next to the bed. Of course, by six it all quieted down, and I slept again. But by 7:45 my conscience pulled me out of bed.

Today was one of those days that gives Texas a reputation for, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” It stayed damp, dark and chilly early this morning, and I thought sure Jordan would cancel our errand/grocery run. But she didn’t. She said ten o’clock, and by ten it was “fairing off,” as one of my children’s nannies used to say. By eleven, left alone in the car on one errand, I shed my fleece jacket and complained that I was getting a sunburn.

I have been the big cheerleader for Daylight Savings Time, proclaiming my love for dark mornings and long light evenings. I think I have to eat a bit of crow here. I have found I am longing to linger in bed in the mornings, just burrow in and stay there. I have to make myself open my eyes and get on with the world. And in the evening, I’m unbearably sleepy at too early an hour. My inner clock is out of whack.

Worse yet, even without storms, I wake about four and sleep restlessly from then on. I read something about insomnia that identified nap insomnia—napping uses up your sleep need, and you don’t rest as well at night. Guilty! Some days when I nap (which I do every day religiously), I think I haven’t slept but then I realize that I have come from some far country and, indeed, I’ve slept and dreamt. The other insomnia cause that hit home with me is wine—a bit of the grape at night helps you go to sleep but you tend to wake in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep.

I do, however, expect things to be better in the morning, when it will be sunny, and I will bounce out of bed ready to dig into the edits on my Alamo manuscript. Ah, don’t hold your breath.

Tonight, a lovely supper with Betty and Jean at the Tavern—delicious sole, mashed potatoes, and spinach. And talk—about Better Angels and politics, about 23andMe, and Alzheimer’s and what we know, and always, about food. I think I’ll abandon that wonderful-sounding butternut squash recipe. Too hard to peel a raw squash. Life’s big problems.

What triggers anxiety?

I didn't sleep well last night for several reasons. I think I had worked myself into anxiety because I had Jacob overnight, had to get him to day camp and get myself out the door by 8:30 for a doctor's appointment. Then I had a small grocery store run to make, a luncheon appointment, and a happy hour scheduled. It all seemed overwhelming, but anticipation is the great ally of anxiety. When push came to shove, it all worked out fine.
Jacob was at day camp shortly after eight--teeth brushed, mouthwash used, breakfast eaten, lunch in a paper sack because they were going on a field trip. Never mind that he had on the same shorts he'd worn yesterday and refused to brush his hair--it's curly and looks a mess when he wakes up. He would wear a hat, he said. I suppose I would be more strict if I were the parent, but I'm not--I'm the grandmother. Jordan looks at me and demands, "What's wrong with you? You never would have let me do that!"
I also didn't sleep well because something has scared Jacob in the back room where his bed is, and he  slept in my bed. Like sleeping with a churning furnace and occasionally realizing there was a hand poised over my face, sort of like a spider.
Not sleeping, I was up early--watered plants, fixed his lunch, was terribly efficient. Got him to day camp, went to my doctor apt. (I feel an opus on osteopathic manipulative medicine coming up! I feel so much better!), did my quick Central Market shopping--all with the company of my good friend  Betty, who acted like Central Market was a foreign country. Got home in plenty of time for my lunch appointment--even got some work done.
Happy hour as really a chance for me to see Jacob one more time before he goes to camp--he was unimpressed by the sentimental occasion. And then I was home alone, did some work, and am so sleepy I'm going to bed much earlier than usual.
But anxiety is what intrigues me about the day, because about six in the morning I thought I needed to take an anti-anxiety pill. Was it Jacob? The schedule? The doctor appointment? One can never tell, but I sure worked myself into a state. Once I was up, moving, into my morning routine I was much better. Every time that happens to me, I tell myself I should recognize the signs and override them--but it ain't easy at three a.m. when you can't sleep and there's a whirling dervish next to you in the bed. Surely he'll realize soon that he's too old to sleep with his grandmother--on the other hand, as a friend said this afternoon, there's something sweet about it. Except now when I say, "Night, Jacob. Sweet dreams," he says, "Scoot over. And give me some covers." I think he's really growing up.

The sagging middle

No, I'm not referring to my middle though, alas, it is sagging these days. But authors talk about the sagging middle--when you get to the middle of a work in progress and you sag, it sags, you don't know where to go. It happens to those who outline methodically and to us pantsers who have a rough idea of where we're going and leap into it.
Well, I have not even reached the middle, and I'm sagging. At 16,000 words. I think my method that I crowed about--1,000 words a day--is making it sag. I find myself thinking, "Well, what trouble can I get Kelly into in a thousand words today?" The result is an episodic work in which I'm not seeing the forest for the trees. There's no overall controlling sense in the story, even though I know there's a good basic story there to be told.
And in trying to get Kelly into trouble, I've let her become a victim, rather than the person she's been, ready to fight bear for her family and her neighborhood. At three in the morning the other night I decided that she's hopelessly passive, and I'm bored with this new Kelly--which means readers would be bored.
So I've got to start all over, give Kelly some life, work in Keisha's story, for I figured this would be Keisha's book, just as Ms. Lorna and Mike had their books in Trouble in a Big Box and the forthcoming Deception in Strange Places (due out at the very end of July).
So here I am, waking between two and four in the morning, because the dog has a new habit of wanting to go out then, and  lying awake wondering about Kelly and her current stalker and how I can work  it out. Oh, my.
For those who think writing is easy, I beg to differ. It's sometimes like pulling teeth. The words don't come easily nor do the ideas. And I admit I am fully capable of distracting myself with a manuscript I'm to edit, a newsletter to put together, Facebook, another mystery to read--hey, that's educational, right?
For those who haven't read any Kelly O'Connell Mysteries, this is probably pretty incomprehensible. I can only hope you'll decide you have to meet all these characters.