Kings, crowns, and horses

 

Coronation supper
Like much of my cooking,
it tasted better than it looked.

What a day! The first British coronation in seventy years and the Kentucky Derby! I come by my fascination with the coronation naturally. My father was born in Canada, served in the Canadian army with British troops during WWI (honest! That long ago!) and was a dedicated Anglophile all his life. When I was growing up, we ate a lot of lamb and potatoes, sang “Annie Laurie” around the piano on Sunday nights, and traced our Scottish heritage back to Gilles McBain, the hero of the battle (slaughter?) at Culloden.

I remember being wakened at three or so in the morning to listen to Elizabeth’s coronation on a scratchy radio. At thirteen or fourteen, the significance escaped me, but I sensed from Dad that it was a momentous occasion. This time I confess I didn’t get up—live coverage was just ending when I turned on the TV this morning, but I will watch for re-runs tonight. (A note later: there was no special coverage later in the day--what a disappointment.)

This time, there was a noisy anti-monarchy faction among the throngs cheering the king. They wore yellow outfits and shouted, “Not my king!” I dismissed them as low-lifes with no class. I know the arguments—the monarchy is outdated, the royals live in luxury while Brits pay high taxes to support their lifestyle. What critics fail to recognize is that being a part of “the company” is hard work, with countless charitable appearances required—and donations made. They do many good things not just in England but throughout the world. Beyond that, I like the symbolism of the monarchy: it stands for unity, something that holds a country together (most of the country anyway). In America, where we are so divided, we need something like that that reminds us we are one country, loyal to each other and to our country. Besides, and maybe this is my heritage, I love the ceremony and pageantry.

Having those two events on the same day presented the kind of cooking dilemma I cherish. Should I cook coronation chicken salad or Kentucky Hot Browns? I chose the chicken salad, although the British royals eschewed it today in favor of a quiche—how pedestrian! The chicken salad is in my fridge as I write. It is made with lots of the flavors of India, reminiscent of the days when the British Empire stretched from one horizon to the next—curry, chutney, raisins, and toasted almonds (yes, I had to toast two batches because I burned the first).

My fridge also holds pea salad, one of those things that I usually make from scratch without a recipe. But when I came across a recipe, I decided to follow it—after all, I had never put vinegar and Worcestershire in pea salad. The recipe began with instructions to cook bacon. I did but with some reluctance. I’m not all that sure about bacon in pea salad. When I got to the end, you combine everything but the bacon, chill for hours, and add the bacon just before serving. So why cook it hours ahead? I had a bacon sandwich for lunch and decided against adding it tonight!

Kentucky Hot Browns are a draw though, and I may have to do them soon. Open-faced sandwiches with turkey and tomato, slathered with Mornay sauce, and topped with bacon—there It is again, but this time more appropriate to the dish. Of course, if you eat a Hot Brown, you should drink a Mint Julep. Not being a racing fan (all those dead horses!), I usually watch the high-tension two minutes at home and don’t go to parties. But I did one year, drank not one but two (they taste so good), and was home in bed by six o’clock. Lethal!

Later in the evening

My coronation chicken salad was delicious—flavors I never would think of, but they worked well together. I loved it. And the pea salad, with no bacon, was good. Jean announced pea salad was one of the few things she doesn’t like but she would eat mine, so I have her a small helping. Quite quickly she asked if it was all right if she helped herself to more. Win!

Renee came by with her daughter-in-law, Courtney, who is in town from Austin to babysit the dogs of our friends Teddy and Sue. Lovely visit. Courtney is a delight and a true dog person, and we had lots of talk about.

But one clap of thunder, and they were all out of here almost instantly. I was left wondering what happened to my nice party. We’ve had lots of thunder since—and one really huge loud clap that sounded directly overhead. But, no rain. Sophie, however, is keeping close to me.

How sad to have a day of pageantry, on both sides of the pond, end with yet another mass shooting in Texas. Nine dead, seven injured in a shooting at a mall in Allen, north of the Metroplex. Yes, it was an AR-15. Gov. Abbott was quick to offer all support the state could give, but that's after the fact. He has not done one thing to prevent these tragedies. Indeed, he has loosened laws so that now anyone can get a weapon, without a license, without training. There were children among the victims tonight. Gov. Abbott, blood is on your hands. Texans, we must do something to curtail this senseless killing.

Seems almost inane now to say that tomorrow will be a lazy day, with leftovers for lunch, and I think Christian is cooking supper. I have a writing project but I’m not ready to talk about it. And tomorrow night, well after supper, Jordan will come home. We will all be so glad to have her home again, but I’m sure she’s a bit nostalgic about ending her adventure. How lucky we are to have this normal life with its moments of joy--for nine people, that will never happen again. I am heartbroken.

The Kentucky Derby and other unrelated things

 

Since before I can remember, I was taught to be proud of my Scottish heritage. For years I have regularly paid my dues to be enrolled as a member of Clan MacBean. When my oldest son and daughter and I went to Scotland, we visited the MacBain Memorial Park in the hills above Dores, with a glimpse of Lochness. The land is part of the original clan homelands, purchased as a memorial in the sixties by Hughston McBain of Marshall Field & Co. in Chicago and then the McBain of McBain. Colin, Megan (see? Their names are even Celtic) and I proudly signed the guest book kept at the pub in Dores.

That 23andMe indicated I have English and Irish blood but not a drop of Scot didn’t bother me at all. I know better. I am a MacBain, with a park in Scotland. I thrill to the discordant notes of the bagpipe and the beat of the drums—and I’d love some year to go to Tattoo in Edinburgh, though I think perhaps that ship has sailed without me.

Still, tonight, I watched the streaming of the memorial service for James Hughston McBain, late the McBain of McBain, who died at the age of 93. Bagpipers and drummers made a ceremonial entrance before the service. Probably James McBain had many non-Scottish friends in Tucson where he lived, but I noticed a few tartans thrown over the shoulders of some women at the service. The pipers and drummers wore a variety of tartans, though I don’t think I saw one McBain plaid. Even the minister had a plaid stole. Fittingly given the Scottish heritage, it was a Presbyterian service. A nice Saturday reminder of both my faith and my heritage.

On another odd note, I read an article today about the history of containers for restaurant to-go food. There is, for instance, a man who has the world’s largest collection of pizza boxes. They are all brand new and grease free. The most prized are those with the winking chef, a jolly man in a toque with dark eyebrows and mustache, his fingers raised in an okay sign. You’ve surely seen him on any number of billboards, etc. But where does one store an extensive collection of pizza boxes. And to me this just says some people will collect anything.

The article went on to a discussion of Chinese take-out boxes, those intricately designed, folded things of waxed paperboard with a wire handle. Those were designed in the late nineteenth century and have changed little since then. When I was a kid that’s what every Chinese meal came in, though how I know that is a mystery, because my British father, a beef and potatoes man, would never have eaten Chinese. Today those boxes have a pagoda on them and printing that is meant to look like Chinese calligraphy. We won’t discuss authenticity.

And finally there are sushi boxes, which must wring the heart of every environmentalist. If made of wood, they might be priceless designs. Not so much so, made of plastic. Today’s black sushi boxes, often with red and gold flourishes, are an imitation of the artistic Japanese lacquered dishes with mountain scenes, flowers, and brocade. Think about that the next time you pick up sushi at the grocery store.

Jean and I watched the Kentucky Derby tonight and cheered mightily for the longshot who won but who obviously did not like being in the winners’ circle or his blanket of roses. I am always a bit on edge watching that two minutes, fearing that someone—mostly some horse—will go down. Today’s race was without incident, and I am glad. The build-up to the show was not as much fun as I expected—when I wanted the camera to pan the crowd and show us all the crazy hats, instead we got a lot of meaningless talk. And one time when they did pan the crowd, we got  a group of men who had obviously had too many mint juleps. But the race itself was exciting, and we were pleased for the winner.

Kentucky Hot Brown

My Kentucky Hot Browns were not as good as I hoped, though Jean is always an appreciative audience for my cooking experiments. Doubt I’ll try that again. Anyone want some leftover Mornay sauce?

Sweet dreams, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there—and all the many women who have taken on the mothering role though it was not biologically theirs.

 

 

Here's Kelly--again!

 

Kelly O'Connell's debut

As I write, my eyes are on the TV, watching the Kentucky Derby. All I need is a mint julep, which would send me to my bed almost instantly. I do love them, but I am sensible and have a glass of white wine. I’m not much of a racing fan and I often think racing is cruel to the horses, but I love the pageantry and I always feel the suspense. The actual race is over so quickly, it’s almost incidental to the whole event.

It’s been a long, sort of lonely day. A brief visit from Jordan this morning has been my only contact with a human, and Sophie has slept away most of the day. It’s still cloudy and damp, though I think it’s finally beginning to clear up. But it’s been blessedly quiet. Yesterday I was barely aware of construction noise if I was busy, working, moving around the cottage. But when I settled down for a nap it suddenly became the loudest sound ever—an irregular deep beeping sound. Maybe a sump pump? I heard it again this morning with dread and wondered if the workermens (as one granddaughter used to call them) didn’t know it was Saturday. But they must have known and only worked half a day, because it got quiet around noon.

And I’ve been busy re-creating Kelly O’Connell’s world. For those who don’t know (really, you don’t know? I’m astounded), Kelly O’Connell is the character at the center of my longest mystery series—seven books and a novella. She’s a realtor in Fairmount, a historic neighborhood in Fort Worth where she specializes in renovating original Craftsman homes. Kelly stars in a cozy series bearing her name, and in many ways she’s a typical cozy heroine—amateur sleuth who can’t keep her nose out of police business, specifically murder. Not unusual for a cozy heroine to be partnered with a police officer, but in Kelly’s case she’s married to the chief of police, and they have her two daughters from her first marriage; their daughter completes the family.

Yesterday a chance comment made me think I might do another Kelly O’Connell book. It’s been three years since I was in Kelly’s neighborhood, so I did need to do some refreshing. And as I did a character list, it really was like meeting old friends. I’d forgotten some of them, needed to remind myself what happened to others and decide what had happened to them in the hiatus. They were very real people to me, and I remembered the good thing one reviewer said about my characters—they are like people you’d meet in the grocery store. I thought that a great compliment.

This time Kelly will get herself involved in saving the iconic Cowtown Coliseum in Fort Worth’s Stockyards Historic District—a bit out of her territory, but it springs from some nonfiction work I’d been doing on people involved in preserving the historic aspect of Fort Worth Stockyards district. Lots of opportunity to work in fascinating local history.

I’ve been known before to have these flashes of brilliant ideas and not follow through on them. A sequel to Saving Irene languishes in my computer even now, and indeed the first 20K words of Saving Irene sat untouched for a year until on a whim I went back to them. So I’m not making any hard commitment on this one—I find that often gets you in trouble. But I am enthusiastic about the work I did today. Who knows?

If you haven’t met Kelly yet, the first book is Skeleton in a Dead Space, available in ebook or paperback.

Meanwhile I have fixed myself a good dinner of leftovers and am ready to settle down with a mystery while I keep one eye on the results of the local elections.

 

Saturday Odds and Ends

A bit of whimsy for your weekend pleasure

Jordan sent this from a lake house where she and

some friends are celebrating a birthday

Who can resist? I watched the Kentucky Derby today, or as someone described it, “the most exciting two minutes in horse racing.” Oh my goodness, the mud! As the stable boys led their horses out, I wondered that they didn’t flounder in that deep mud—horses and stable boys both. And near the end of the race, I could see that the horses were having trouble with their footing. What a miserable sight. I always feel a bit sorry for the jockeys at the rear of the pack with almost no way to catch up, and so I felt today. I also wished for a mint julep. I remember one year when I was invited to a derby party—had two juleps and was home in bed, leaving the kids o fend for themselves, by six. Never again!

Special investigator Mueller always looks so solemn, though I have seen one or two pictures when he was jovial. One obviously doctored meme today showed him laughing at Trump and saying, “You misunderstood. Not Nobel. No Bail.” But if anything can make that intense man laugh, the antics of Giuliani and Trump ought to bring some amusement. When I was young, my then-husband used to tease me about being clumsy. I had a good friend in Missouri who was equally clumsy, and he called us “the dance team of Ox and Klutz.” It’s all I can think of as I watch those two tripping over each other, lying to explain away their previous lies. Sorry, guys, it ain’t working. I got a good laugh out of several opinion columns today.

But I also felt a lot of indignation about all the ongoing crap—forgive my language. Trump’s speech to the NRA, obviously toadying up to them and forgetting everything he ever said about gun control; the ongoing situation in Puerto Rico; the part of our population who blindly accepts his moral transgressions, whereas they called for Clinton’s head and would have called for Obama’s if he’d given them cause—well, actually he did by being black. I am heartbroken about the hate Trump has opened up in this country, the destruction of women’s rights over their own bodies, the desolation of our environmental and worker protections. But I am blathering about stuff we already know. What we don’t know is how much longer we have to put up with idiocy, deceit, lies and corruption. And I, for one, think Trump is mentally incapable of handling day-to-day life let alone the presidency.

A quiet day today, and I worked on the cookbook. Every time I think I’m ready to send it off, I find more to do. But tonight, my dinner experiment went better than last night. I made pasta with anchovies and breadcrumbs. Lesson learned: the way to make good, crisp crumbs is to rough chop a piece of artisan bread in a processor—I used sourdough—and sauté those crumbs in a saucepan with a generous glug of olive oil. Stand over them and stir constantly. They were—I say modestly—a culinary triumph. The pasta sauce was simply garlic-infused olive oil with a whole lot of anchovies mashed into it. I liked it, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you really like anchovies.

Now I’m going to indulge in reading a mystery—Ellery Adams Murder in the Locked Library