What’s on your bucket list?

The view from Stirling Castle in the Scottish Highlands,
with the Wallace memorial seen in the middle

Before I get to bucket lists, I want to say that National Dog Day will certainly tell you who your friends are, although I’m not sure whether it is Sophie or me that has so many friends. But in haste I threw up a handy picture of me holding Sophie—it’s really not a flattering picture of either of us. Sophie was recovering coat after being shaved at the vet, and one skinny leg, all bone, is sticking up with a tuff of fur at the end like a booty. Otherwise, her coat looks like it never met a brush or comb. Sideways from the left is definitely not my best look—so much jowl I look worse than my dear dad. But 124 of you have liked it—and still counting. Sophie and I are both flattered and grateful.

Now about the bucket list. I saw a suggestion that we replace a bucket list with a “cut it” list, so I got to thinking about my list. It’s short. I think of bucket lists as mainly listing travel destinations, and at my age and given the fact that I’m not an easy traveler—don’t like to fly although I will—and I’m now mobility challenged, I have already put several things on a cut-it list. Still on my bucket list: a return to Scotland, where I left my heart in the Highlands, and a return to Chicago, my hometown. It’s no coincidence that I want to go to places I love and find comfortable. I missed the gene that wants to explore every exotic location on the globe. Machu Picchu is simply not for me.

I suppose a few things besides travel destinations go on a bucket list, so there are a couple of new restaurants in Fort Worth I want to go to—Le Margot (French) and Walloon’s (southern seafood). But I really don’t need them on a list.  I’ll get there sooner or later.

That made me think about what I’d do if “The Millionaire” arrived at my front door. My first instinct was that I would donate the money, probably to my church. But then I thought about the various projects we’d like to do around the house. Christian wants to create a master suite in the attic and an ensuite bedroom for me downstairs (no, I’m not ready to leave the cottage). And I am itching to do extensive landscaping, turning our lawn into one big bed of wildflowers. I realize the end of the hottest, driest summer in years is not the time to think about that. Besdies, back in the day when “The Millionaire” was popular, a million would go pretty far. I’m not so sure about today.

So much for dreaming about a bucket list and sudden wealth. What have I already put on my cut-it list? A cruise through the inner passage in Alaska—sure, I’d like to visit Denali and I think Ketchikan would be fun, but Anchorage, Juneau, and Fairbanks aren’t calling my name. I get pretty good salmon at home. I’d also probably like a trip to New England to see the fall foliage and eat fresh lobster. I know the lobster we get in Texas pales before what I’d eat at the shore, but I’ll settle for it. A cruise that we reluctantly cancelled a few years ago should still be on my bucket list—the Great Lakes from Chicago to Toronto. I’m fascinated by the Great Lakes, probably due to my Chicago upbringing. In Oakville, a suburb of Toronto, my grandmother’s house was a block from Lake Ontario. So both ends of the trip appealed, but the summer we were to go I was seriously ill and lost any enthusiasm for travel. I got my health back, but not the travel enthusiasm.

I suppose all our bucket lists reflect who we are, but I find mine shows that I like the familiar and the comfortable. I am not all that interested in exploring new places. Even Paris, London, and Rome don’t call to me. I am most happy in my cottage and at my desk. But my limited list, even my cut-it list, reflects my interest in food. Maybe bucket lists—and cut-it lists—are the new personality indicators.

What’s on your bucket list? Your cut-it list?

Memories of Scotland

Megan and me at Culloden,
Can't you just feel the wet cold on that vast battlefield?

If you know me, you know I’m not a traveler. I’m just too content tucked away in my cottage with good friends coming to visit me. Oh, maybe before quarantine, I was a bit more inclined to get out, but quarantine worked a number on me when I saw how easy it was to stay home. But there’s another side to me—and that’s my ferocious love for Scotland. Believe me, in my younger years I traveled enough to see a lot of America though never Europe, and I loved many places. But the trip of a lifetime, for me, was 2012 when I went to Scotland with Colin and Megan, my two oldest children.

I don’t care what 23 And Me says about my having no Scottish blood about—I am a member of Clan MacBean, as was my father. And I’m proud that I have been to the MacBean Memorial Park above Loch Ness and that I have signed the clan registry at the Inn of Dores. In the fifties, Hughston MacBain, chairman of the board of Marshall Field & Company, was the MacBain of MacBain, and he used to call Dad and talk about how they were related. My dad loved every minute of it—and I love inheriting that tradition.

So in 2012 we flew to Edinburgh (the only time I stepped foot in England at Heathrow, which had too many escalators for my comfort). We spent a day in Edinburgh, including a wonderful bus tour of the city in a double decker. And then the next day we drove to Inverness, with a stop at Stirling to see the castle and hear the story of William Wallace, hero of the Battle of Stirling (and yes, I ate haggis). What impressed me was the contrast between the intellectual atmosphere of Edinburgh with the university that was the cradle of so much intellectual advancement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century and the bloody history of Stirling. They don’t call if bloody Scotland for nothing.

What brings this all up now is that it was mid-May when we traveled, and now my computer is spitting up pictures of Scotland every day. I would repeat that trip in a heartbeat. But what dismays me is that many of the images on my computer are not jpegs but something called JSON which I can’t reproduce. So there are wonderful pictures, I can share with you—Megan and me in the door to the Inn of Dores, for instance.

But I can show you the two of us at Culloden, scene of the decisive battle between the forces of England and the followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie who sought autonomy for Scotland. The Scot were technologically outdoor, armed with claymores (swords) while the Brits had rifles and an amazing technique—they lined up three men at a time: one lay flat on the ground, the next knelt, and the third stood and they all fired at the Scots—the guy on the bottom knew not to raise his head or he’d be shot. The Scots had amazing heart and bravery but no rifles.

The display in the visitors’ center at Culloden was amazing—we walked down a corridor, with audio tapes playing on both sides depicting the troops readying for battle: Scots on one side, Brits on the other. Men muttering around campfires as they talked the next day. Then we saw a demonstration of the rifle technique and saw a video that absolutely broke my heart as all those brave Scots rushed to their death. Hero of the battle? Gilles McBain, who killed fifteen or more of the enemy before he was cut down. The Duke of Cumberland, British commander, was said to express regret at the death of so brave a man.

The day we visited Culloden was cold and rainy, and we never ventured out to walk the battlefield, though I would much have liked to. Today it is a peaceful looking, grassy plain, but stone pillars serve as monuments to mark the battlefield. It gave me the shivers and made an enormous impression on me. Note: I’ve heard Americans pronounce the name with equal emphasis on all three syllables, but the Scots emphasize the second: Cul loden.

If I were to travel again, I would go back to Scotland. My heart truly is in the highlands but I am okay with the memories of one glorious trip: eating haggis in pubs in small villages, taking a ferry from the Isle of Skye to the mainland, visiting a different castle every day including Urquhart which was blown up by its defenders to keep it out of the hands of the enemy (most dramatic end to a video I’ve ever seen), tasting Scotch at ten in the morning at a distillery (I am not a Scotch drinker!). It was wonderful, every minute.

Sláinte!

Food, nostalgia, a new word, and a book about Chicago--or is it about girls and women?

Not to brag, but I just had the best dinner! It’s been a day when Sophie and I were out here alone—no visitors, no human contact except by phone and computer. Jordan breezed in for two minutes, so frustrated with her busy business that she breezed right out again. But dinner made up for it. A piece of salmon filet with chimichurri sauce, a boiled potato with lots of plant-based butter, and a green salad. Chimichurri is my new favorite thing. When we went out to supper Saturday, I had salmon with chimichurri (no, I’ll not tire of it) and came home with a small container which goes a long way. I roasted the salmon with salt, pepper, and olive oil. And not too long in the oven—I love the glass door in my new toaster oven, because I could see the salmon lighten as it cooked.

This is a nostalgia day for me. Fifty-eight years ago, I married one Joel Alter. Some good came of it—four wonderful kids and a liking for Jewish food. Beyond that, it was pretty much a wash. From my point of view, we were happy for fifteen years, and then miserable for two after he went crazy. Were he still walking this earth, I’m sure he’d have a different tale to tell.

More significant now to me is that eleven years ago today, Megan, Colin, and I were in Edinburgh, the start of our wonderful week-long exploration of Scotland. It was a trip that will forever be one of my best memories. I’d love to go back to Scotland, but since that seems unlikely, I cling to these memories. The picture is Megan and me at Edinburgh Castle.

One more bit of nostalgia: I watched an interesting program tonight, an interview with Dawn Turner, author of Three Girls from Bronzeville: A Uniquely American Memoir of Race, Fate, and Sisterhood. Bronzeville, a neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side, was in my childhood a Black neighborhood. Growing up in Kenwood at 51^st Street, I knew 47^th Street was the dividing line, but I never heard the name Bronzeville. When I was very young my family attended St. James Methodist Church at 4611 S. Ellis, clearly in Bronzeville and not Kenwood. (Today the church is being converted into apartments and community work space—nice to see the very traditional limestone building being preserved.) The program tonight was interesting, but whereas Turner talked about the universality of her growing up experience (her best friend and her sister had much more difficult adulthoods than she, a respected and successful journalist), I wanted to hear specifics about those two adjacent neighborhoods. In my young years I thought 47^th Street was a gulf as wide as a moat, and I wanted to know how that affected her because I know how it affected me. She touched lightly on it but not in depth. Still, the book goes on my TBR list.

My new word for the day: hegemonic masculinity. (Okay, it’s two words.) It means a society dominated by men. I ran across it online today but thought it so appropriate when old white men (and one young white woman) are trying to tell women what to do with their bodies. Like the majority of Americans, I continue to be distressed about Justice Alito’s draft, with all the holes in its logic and support and the utter lack of medical knowledge or consideration. But I read an encouraging post today from Wendy Davis—remember her? Thirteen-hour filibuster in the Texas legislature against an anti-abortion bill which was later passed anyway. Davis has not given up the fight, and she wrote that there is a way to win if control goes to the states. I’m not sure I have this right, and now I can’t find the reference—but there is a way. It has to do with amending the state constitution so that the decision will be in the hands of voters at the ballot box, rather than the state legislature. It’s early days yet, but there is a movement to that effect in several states (Michigan for one, I believe) and we must be alert here in Texas for the first opportunity to work toward that goal. We’re fortunate to have Davis to guide us.

Monday, and a whole week ahead. So far I seem to be lazing through it. Hope it’s a good one for you.

A memorable weekend

 

My four loves

I have been silent and out of pocket because we went to Austin for a long weekend and a long-delayed get-together with most of the Alter clan—all four of my kids, five of the seven grandchildren, one wife, and one husband. We were missing two grandchildren, one wife, and one husband—and they were sorely missed.

The minute we arrived Thursday night, Jacob was swept up into who knows what with his two Austin cousins, and the same happened the next day when Kegan arrived from Tomball. The four reminded me of classic pictures of the Beatles as they trooped in and out of the house. Sawyer, now 17, drove them everywhere, and I know they loved being on their own. Two of my three granddaughters could not come because of other commitments, but when Eden, the only girl among them, arrived, the boys happily included her in their activities.

The grands--four boys and a girl

We ate extraordinarily well—no surprise there. A fish dinner at a neat restaurant called Monger’s, another supper of grilled pork sandwiches with aioli, and a Mexican night with Bob Armstrong dip from Matt Martinez. And cake—chocolate with chocolate icing, yellow with chocolate icing, and some kind of coconut (obviously I stick to double chocolate).

Megan found sleeping space for most of us--the teenage boys bunked together, I got a bed in the office, and Jordan and her brothers stayed in the cabana. (Jamie's wife and daughter only stayed one night and the three of them were in a motel, but Jamie stayed in the cabana after they left.) Jordan reports many hijinks--the boys had a drum contest with snares and bass, seeing how much noise they could make, and Jamie threw on a sheet and tried to scare Jordan as a ghost. It didn't worked, but she laughed a lot. This was all at one a.m. So much fun that my grown kids can still hang out and fool around--and no, nobody else heard the drums.

We were celebrating all the birthdays and graduations we missed during pandemic, but because my birthday was the most recent, I got extra gifts—what every girl wants for her kitchen: a new garbage can. But its one of those where you wave a hand and it opens like magic, and I think it has a charcoal filter. I am so tired of smelly garbage. But I am doubly proud to announce that I am now a Scottish landholder—I own one square foot in Dumfermline Parish in the Scottish Highlands—yep, I have a fancy certificate to prove it! You may now call me Lady Judy.

A highlight of the trip for me was seeing Megan and Brandon’s new house. They tore down their 1940s cottage which had been randomly (and inefficiently) added to and built a new and very modern house on the same footprint. Stucco outside and white walls inside with lots of large windows, it has clean, smooth lines, no clutter, lots of art, separate bedrooms for the boys and a common room for them to watch TV or hang out with friends. The kitchen, much like the one they had installed ten years ago or so, has a long marble slab which seats at least six—perfect for gathering and talking while Megan cooks, which she does often and well. 

Most remarkable to me though were small architectural touches for efficiency—light switches that are at the height of fingertips and not up on the wall where they interfere with artwork (and there is new, stunningly modern art work throughout the house, including a skateboard painted silver and bearing one word: Impeach), window shades that automatically go down at a certain time in the evening, desks that can be raised to a standing position or lowered to the traditional seated height with the touch of a button, a guest bath with a shelf under the sink for towels, etc., and a neat bar for hanging towels—perfect also for hanging my travel kit. Hidden storage spaces are everywhere, and a laundry chute lets the boys drop their clothes right on top of the washing machine. Everything is designed for efficiency—perfect for a busy family with two high schoolers and two working parents. And yet it is as attractive as any layout from Architectural Digest. I'm strictly an old-house person, but I loved this--as did Jacob who is drawn to modern.

Megan's house, from my favorite perch
with Megan at her computer
That's my computer in the foreground--I set up an office

Home today. We came the back way—183 to 281 to Cleburne and up the Chisholm Trail—to avoid the construction traffic jam in Waco. And unheard of for Texas in August—we ran into rain. Brief but intense cloudbursts, with threatening skies all around us. We could see rain in the distance when we weren’t right in it. Jordan did a masterful job of not only driving but figuring out which way the storms were headed and pretty much skirting them.

And so we are home, hungry and happy, after a truly great weekend. I know I’ve said it before, but I am so blessed with family.

Christian took great care of the dogs, and Sophie got to be in the main house.
The first day he sent this picture with this explanation: Reporting for duty, Sir. 8:30 a.m.
The house is secure, but I will continue to monitor the situation.

A lazy day and a touch of Scotland.

A lazy, sleepy day. And a food day, the highlight of which was a Zoom cooking class featuring the Scottish National Chef Gary McLean cooking from his own kitchen. The program was sponsored by Central Market, which, not coincidentally, has all the Scottish products available—including salmon from the Hebrides and Scottish ice cream. On the menu today: a salad of smoked salmon (either hot smoked or cold—I much prefer the cold smoked), green peas, green beans, snap peas, and snipped dill, all on a base of pea puree; a fennel salad accompanied by broiled langoustine with Scottish Tain cheddar; Hebridean (I cannot figure out how to pronounce that) salmon filets with a warm potato and asparagus salad; and for dessert, cranachan—a concoction of browned oatmeal with honey, whiskey, heavy cream barely whipped, and  raspberries served over ice cream (Scottish, of course) and topped with shaved chocolate. I have always threatened to move to Scotland. Now I am sure.

The segment was filmed in McLean’s own Scottish kitchen, which was, he told us, designed for demonstrations. It was not a large space, though I’ve always known that the best chefs do not need a large kitchen. Still, he had an impressive four ovens—some with different functions—with refrigeration below them, drawers designed to respond to the touch of a knee, so that he could open without touching while cooking. As he cooked, he kept loading empty dishes and used ingredients off to his right, and I fervently hoped there was an assistant over there making order out of chaos. At the end the camera panned the kitchen, and there was no assistant but a heck of a mess to be cleaned up.

McLean himself, a man in his mid-forties, was charming and unassuming, gesturing a lot with his hands, smiling, and, best of all, explaining techniques as he went. Who knew you could poach eggs twenty-four hours in advance and heat them up? To my surprise, he did not cook on a gas cooktop—I thought all chefs prepared gas. No, he had an electric cooktop which he explained, partway through, was induction technology. That reassured me immensely since I cook on an induction hot plate. He had two burners and another which had a special name—“expander?” (If he can do all that with two burners, surely I can do pretty well with one.) I love a good Scottish brogue, but I admit I had a bit of trouble following him occasionally. I have since heard that Central Market is investigating closed captioning for future lessons.

I learned lots from watching him. The lesson was supposed to be a cook-along, but I had early decided I just wanted to watch and absorb and not distract myself by trying to cook along—although he did occasionally pause and chatter a bit to give home cooks a chance to catch up. My neighbor, Prudence, started to cook along and gave it up but said they would be eating well at her house. McLean has a cookbook which is more, he says, a lesson in techniques rather than a cookbook. I looked it up on Amazon but could not find it. I’ll keep trying. Since Central Market never misses a marketing opportunity, I expect them to carry it soon.

My takeaway: a thoroughly enjoyable Saturday experience and recipes I’ll cook. Jordan was enthusiastic tonight about the entrée salmon (minus the soft-poached egg) and the dessert. I would add the smoked salmon salad, but I could pass on the fennel salad—there was some on-screen discussion of substituting something and I wonder about a Napa cabbage or something. I am not a fan of fennel. Also, as I’m allergic to shrimp but can eat lobster, I’ve always wondered which camp langoustine falls into.The internet says lobster, so I’m gathering my courage to try because they looked delicious. 

Must add that the day was rounded out with a delightful visit with Carol Roark and Lon Burnam—conversation with them is always fun. We ordered supper from Macaluso’s which deserves a shout-out for hot and delicious food delivered in a timely manner. I had eggplant Parmagiana because I don’t often get a chance to eat eggplant, and I loved it. Carol is one of the people who keeps my writing world in order—feeding me information, correcting me when I’m wrong, and cheering me on. And I always appreciate Lon’s sense of humor and his take on politics. Jordan and I both agreed it was a jolly evening.

And Sophie enjoyed it. For some reason, she took to Lon and lay at his feet much of the evening. There was some debate about whether she was protecting Lon or protecting me from him.

Happy Labor Day weekend, everyone. Please stay safe and wear your masks. I am appalled at pictures of crowds of unmasked people—as at the Trump rally on Lake Travis where at least four boats sank. No further comment needed, except none of the massed spectators had masks.

Thoughts on Father’s Day

Gilles MacBean

Martyred hero of the Battle of Culloden

As I think about my dad today, I realize he was many people in one—a physician, college president and hospital administrator, a lifelong progressive, a staunch Methodist, a devoted gardener. But the side of Dad that most brings a smile to me is fascination with his Scottish ancestry.

My maiden name is MacBain, and Dad was a member of the McBain Clan (there are countless ways to spell it). Once, a native Scot said to me, rather condescendingly, “One of the lesser clans,” but I was quick to counter, “Maybe, but a part of Clan Chattan.” In the bloody days of Scotland’s history, Clan Chattan was an amalgamation of clans united for protection against such larger marauding clans as the Campbells.

I’m not sure how Dad’s fascination with Scottish history and ancestry began, whether it had to do with his being Canadian or not, nor do I know if my grandparents shared his interest. But Dad read about Scotland, studied its history, collected fat file folders labeled, “MacBain.” He had a MacBain plaid tie, though he never went so far as to don a kilt. A sword passed down, so I was told, from the War of 1812 was one of his treasures.

It was probably in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s that a gentleman named Houston McBain was the McBain of McBain, the chief of the clan. He was also the chairman of the board of that iconic department store, Marshall Field & Company. I think Dad’s friendship with Houston began by letter, progressed to telephone calls, and eventually resulted in one or two meetings. Dad used to joke that if Houston McBain wanted to tell him they were related, he was all for it. By serendipity, Houston’s daughter married a student at the osteopathic college where Dad was president, giving them yet something else in common.

Houston purchased a part of the original McBain homestead in the hills above Loch Lomond. It was just a small part, but he complained that people don’t realize it’s as difficult to get a Scot to part with his land as it is to part him from his money. The memorial park established on this land is not a cemetery but simply land dedicated to the clan. Although there is a surfaced parking lot, it is essentially in its steep and natural state. Houston once complained that tourists were stealing the heather—several varieties grew on the land.

Mom and Dad visited the memorial park, and someplace I have the pictures that Dad, an addicted amateur photographer, took. It was a thrill for me in 2010 to travel to Scotland with my two oldest children and visit the park. We climbed one of the hills to a sitting area with a bench where we could see a tiny patch of Loch Lomond. No wonder Dad always liked to play “The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” on the piano. When I was a kid, I knew all the words so I could sing along with him—neither of us ever able to carry a tune.

From the memorial park, Colin, Megan, and I stopped in the pub in the village of Dores, outside Inverness, and signed the McBain Memorial Park guest registry. We paged back and found my parents’ signatures, and one of the kids wondered aloud if someday they would bring their children to sign the  book and look back for our signatures.

The sense of strong Scottish identity is one of Dad’s gifts to me, just as the trip to Scotland was a highlight of my life. We rented a car and drove from Edinburgh to the Isle of Skye, and then made our way back by weaving through various villages, stopping to eat in pubs, spending the night in B&Bs.

Today I have a trivet and a wall hanging with the clan crest, a marvelous handmade quilt with alternating squares of plaid and plain fabric and the crest, in gold, in the center—Colin and Lisa made it for me. I long ago outgrew the one McBain plaid kilt I had, but I have a square from the plaid carpet that Houston McBain ordered woven. And my couch sports lap blankets in the McBain and Stewart plaids. Colin as the oldest child, has the sword, the MacBain tie, and a miniature bagpipe. These memorabilia make me feel that Dad is still close.

Sláinte, Dad! I miss you.

Rain in Texas, Tattoo in Scotland, and good friends

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but in Texas this August it falls on everything and with unusual frequency. We had a good storm this afternoon. I heard the distant thunder but at first, it’s often not recognizable—could be the construction trucks from the never-ending gas pipe work or any other number of city noises. But then a great clap right overhead, and Sophie was on her feet barking defiantly. I hadn’t even realized that she’d crept up close to me. It blew harder than usual this afternoon, and I worried about the umbrella on the deck. A friend who came by to pick something up about five, reported we lost a small limb or two from the big elm tree in front—the “suffering” tree that I was so indignant about earlier. And the rain continued, slowing down but still coming for well over an hour. Now it’s less a question of watering things than it is to dump water out of flower pots so the plants don’t get root rot.

Elmer Kelton wrote the classic novel, The Time It Neve Rained, about the 1950s drought in the Southwest. But years later, he wrote an article, “The Time It Always Rained,” about the problems that beset sheep ranchers when there is too much rain. I don’t have enough ranch knowledge to enumerate those problems, but I was struck by the fact that too much rain is almost as bad as too little. There are those pests!

A social day. Margaret, a steadfast friend since we met as student wives in Missouri in the early sixties, took me to lunch to celebrate my birthday, almost a month after the fact. We had delicious blue cheese burgers and good slaw with cabbage, kale, and a nice, just-right dressing. Each of us brought half of our lunch home. Then Margaret, good soul that she is, took me grocery shopping. Having spent too many months sending people off with grocery lists and getting some questionable products back, I find grocery shopping for myself a pure delight. And now that I do the motorized carts, it’s even better. I’m not sure Margaret had as much fun as I did.

My list was short, but I promised to cook dinner for my family tomorrow night. Then an opportunity came up to include a recipe in a guest blog, so I decided to kill two whatevers with one meal. I will cook a family favorite for them and take pictures for the blog. But it’s not a last-minute meal, at least not for me, and I needed some supplies.

Tonight, neighbors Margaret and Dennis came for happy hour, joined by Teddy and Sue. Margaret and Dennis have just been to Scotland and knew I’d want to hear all about it. Among other things, they went to Tattoo, an enormous military celebration of Scottish music and entertainment. Warmed the cockles of my heart when Dennis said that mind-boggling spectacle was great but not the highlight of the trip. He was most impressed by the majestic landscape of the Highlands. Fun for me to listen and relive some of my trip to Scotland. They kindly brought me a program from Tattoo and a kilt pin for my clan, MacBean. Dennis said, “Your clan is shrinking,” and I told him it’s always been small—but proud.

A confession: I am so grateful for company and for those who get me out of the cottage, but all day today I was thinking, “When will I write my thousand words for today?” I wrote maybe 200 just before they arrived at five and wrote the rest before I did the dishes. Now that’s focus.

And I got bookmarks today for Pigface and the Perfect Dog. Excited to start passing them out.

Time out

Do you ever just step back from your world for a day and recharge? I did that today—didn’t sleep too late, maybe eight, but was slow and lazy about getting going, didn’t event think about going to church. Lunch and dinner of leftovers—I’d cooked so much last week, I swore I wasn’t going to cook today. I piddled and fiddled at my computer, did odds and ends of business, wrote some personal emails, and spent way too much time on Facebook.

One thing that was fun for me: a neighbor and her family are going to Scotland Tuesday, and I sent her a bit of information about the MacBain Clan and our memorial park, plus sites I enjoyed when I was there. Just writing about it made me want to go again. I probably sent more about Culloden and Urquhart and Dore and the Clearances than she ever wanted to know, but writing it was fun for me. That Scottish novel beckons.

And, the big indicator to me that I needed to recharge: I slept two hours this afternoon. I usually take a nap in the afternoon, often as short as 30 minutes and just as often lying still with my eyes closed but not sleeping. But yesterday I slept an hour and a half, and then two hours today. All those birthday festivities and all that cooking of the last week wore me out.

I have always told myself I didn’t not get worn out by things. I thought I had an inexhaustible supply of energy. I’m terribly afraid my fatigue this weekend is a sign of age, but I’m too tired to battle it.

Starting a fresh week tomorrow. How about you?

A Warm and Wonderful Reunion

Life is funny. Friends come and go in your life. I read somewhere—maybe Anne Lamott—that when a friend disappears from your life it’s because their part in your life story is done. I had a wonderful brunch today with three friends whose part in my life story is definitely not over, much to my joy.

Gayla Christiansen, marketing manager at Texas A&M University Press, Frank Vick, former director of UNT Press, author, past president of Texas State Historical and Texas Institute of Letters, and Fran’s daughter, Karen, were in Fort Worth for a meeting yesterday, came to see my cottage and take me to brunch.

When I was at TCU Press, I was in almost daily contact with Fran and Gayla. They were my “go to” people in publishing, and when I turned seventy they presented me with a certificate about the three world-problem-solving publishing women of Texas. Retirement and life in general has taken us in different directions, though we are sporadically in touch.

Today, over a marvelous lunch of eggs Benedict and roast brisket hash, we picked right up where we left off—catching up with publishing, health, gossip, families, you name it. We lingered over a long brunch—well over two hours. And we’d still be there probably if Gayla, our hostess, hadn’t announced she needed to head for College Station.

I came home on wings of air, much buoyed up to still be a part of the Texas publishing scene. The rest of my day has been a lazy Saturday. Spent much of the afternoon exploring Scotland—how I wish it was in person, but, alas, it was on the internet. Found I had sent a “blatant self-promotion” article to my clan newsletter, The MacBean Clan Register (after all, if you don’t toot your own horn, who will?). In the early early stages of exploring the possibility of a novel set in Scotland. Of course, I’m sure it would require in-person research.

I’ve set myself a goal tonight of finishing a book I’m reading for evaluation for an organization I belong to, so I’m off to bury my nose in the book.

Sophie and the chicken bone: a tale of gluttony

Last night I gnawed on a chicken leg for supper. Left the bone, the rest of my pasta, and some napkins on the plate next to me as I finished a piece of computer work. When I went to scrape the remains into the garbage, there was no bone. The only possible culprit? Sophie, who is a practiced and successful food snatcher. Honest, it was right by me, and I never saw her execute that little half jump by which she grabs food, but it was all I could think of.

Of course, I was semi-frantic! Mt dog had a chicken bone! I once watched a puppy stagger down a hall, fall over and die because it had chewed on a basket and gotten a sliver in its lungs. You can imagine the visions that were going through my head. Sophie seemed fine and gave me a bland look when I asked if she had stolen the chicken bone. I warned Jordan so that her dogs wouldn’t find it in the yard, and much later I saw her outside with a flashlight looking for that blasted bone.

Sophie apparently has not learned a lesson, because she’s had no ill effects. On the other hand, I am the one who suffered. We’re all familiar with three o’clock in the morning worries. This morning mine were all about Sophie. I thought sure if she was in distress I’d hear her throwing up or laboring to breathe, but the cottage was still and quiet. I got up and thumped around with my walker—couldn’t find Sophie. Pretty hard to lose a dog in 600 square feet but there is one chair she gets behind. I opened the refrigerator and called,”Cheese.” It brought her running, and she seemed fine. This morning she sought me out because it was thundering—I’m never sure if she’s scared or protecting me.

Vet says this morning to watch her for vomiting, but I believe we dodged a bullet. And I learned a lesson about keeping scraps well away from the edge of the desk or table of whatever.

On another food note, I had a delightful lunch with an old friend I reconnected with on Facebook in recent years—one of the great benefits of Facebook. Ellen came to tell me the stories of her visits with elderly Scottish women when she was there in the 1970s and walked from village to village. I was enthralled, and, of course, both she and I are hoping this is material for the book I’ve always wanted to write about Scotland. She gave me a great feel for it, though there’s lots of research ahead of me. An exciting prospect.

I thought a good old Scottish girl would appreciate salmon for lunch, so I did a dish of spinach fettucine, asparagus, smoked salmon, dill, and lemon. The recipe called for whole cream but I decided to make it my own recipe and left the cream out, added much more lemon. It was great, if I do say so.

Ellen and I will talk about Scotland again, with me taking copious notes. We met over Carin terriers—a nice tie to Scotland—and had Western Writers of America in common after that. So nice to reconnect after all these years.

Gotta Love the Scots

I’m can’t testify to either of these items, though I did see a picture of the flag, but they’re just too good not to share. Apparently when Donald Trump deplaned in Scotland, he was greeted by a mariachi band pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks. And someone planted a Mexican flag just outside the border of his golf course. Word is he’d been trying, without success, to evict the land owner whose property adjoins the course. I know from family stories that Scots do not easily part with their land.

When Houston MacBain was the MacBain of MacBain (Chief of the Clan) he tried to buy the property that had held the homestead before the Clearances. (I am a registered member of the MacBain/McBean Clan.) The owner reluctantly parted with a small portion of what MacBain wanted—and he had to do with that. So I’m sure Trump has had a hard time wresting property from his neighbor.

I think that means the Scots did not welcome Mr. Trump.

That was my amusement for the day. It was a lazy Sunday, but one in which I got a fair amount of work done—roughed out a newsletter (want to be on the list? Email me at j.alter@tculedu), finished a novel I’m reading, made notes for a novel I want to write, read Facebook and email, and had a good nap—I didn’t sleep well last night.

Tonight neighbors Jay and Susan shared their Sunday night supper with me—tuna salad, chicken salad, potato chips, cherry tomatoes, and good wheat bread. It’s what they eat every Sunday night, and it’s my kind of meal. We had a jolly time, laughing and talking, until I mentioned a political topic—Jay and I immediately clashed as we always do. He takes it in better humor than I do—I want to demand, “How can you be so wrong?” He said, “You and I are going to have an interesting fall.”

I’m really enjoying reading again and am off to start a new book.

 

Calm and peaceful

Amidst the storm of Donald Trump’s outrageous rhetoric and the political speculations that followed, it’s nice to find a bit of calm. I’m watching a Celtic music program on PBS—I don’t care what anyone says, the bagpipes send a thrill through me. And those sweet female Celtic voices, some accompanied by a dancing violinist, mesmerize me. I tried violin as a small child—didn’t have the ear for it. But I can’t imagine dancing across a stage while playing a violin. It’s the proverbial question about rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time—I’m sure I can’t do it. So dancing and playing leaves me spellbound.

I don’t enter drawings on Facebook much, but tonight I entered my name in a drawing for a week for two in Scotland, with three nights on the luxury Royal Scot train. I know which child would go with me.

Physical therapy did a number on me yesterday—sore in the afternoon, uncomfortable in the night. But today I took a deep nap and woke up feeling more pain-free than in a while and also more optimistic. Tonight I did the prescribed exercises, including a still 15 minutes with the hot-pad on my low back. Almost lulled me into sleep right then.

Otherwise, it’s been a day of doing “stuff”—grocery, one Christmas gift bought, some presents wrapped. Yipped at Jacob this morning when I finally got him out of bed and he went right to his iPad instead of getting dressed. Laid down the law: from now on, no iPad until he’s dressed, fed, teeth brushed, backpack all ready to go. Of course then I had a red face—told him there were no waffles (though I sure I had some)—Jordan put them in the freezer door, where I never thought to look.

All in all, the kind of day each of us needs probably more than once in a while. I just let it happen—no “have to get this done,” no pressure, no deadlines. Busy days ahead, so this was a good day. It’s got me thinking about an early bedtime, though I have proofing to do. It will probably wait until tomorrow—or January. I may finally be learning how to retire.

 

At the Water’s Edge by Sara Gruen—a book review

I wanted to read this book because the blurb billed it as about a search for the Lochness monster. As many of you know, I am fascinated by Scotland, all things Scottish (okay, even haggis), and particularly Lochness. The ancestral lands of the MacBean clan (of which I am a member) lie in the hills above Lochness, and I’ve been there.
Nessie is almost a deus ex machina in this excellent novel, with its hints of the paranormal. The story features Ellis and Maddie Hyde and Ellis’ best friend, Hank. Ellis and Hank could be straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel moved into the 1940s and WWII. Both 4-F. Ellis has disgraced himself in his father’s eyes and been cut off from family funds, so he decides the thing to do is go to Scotland and solve the mystery of the Lochness monster, a mystery his father tried desperately to solve years earlier, failed, and made enemies among the locals. Ellis has no trouble convincing his wife and Hank to go along with the scheme and the three carefree partiers set off for Scotland.
But this is less a novel about Nessie, than it is about Maddie, who tells it in her own voice. It’s about her growth in maturity, compassion, and understanding of other worlds than that of privilege which she married into, about discovering a world beyond that she has known in her marriage. Ellis and Hank have no comprehension of the horrors of the war that rages on continents near them, although there are occasional air raid alerts in the small Highlands village. They stay in an inn which is clearly not up to their standards—either in accommodations or service. But while the “boys” are off chasing monsters, Maddie gradually comes to know the villagers and the starkly beautiful land around her and becomes fast friends with two young women who work at the inn. The story unfolds from there—one of love, and growth contrasted with selfish self-interest. I was drawn into its world, stealing every minute I could to read. Maddie almost become my alter ego.
Not so the “boys,” who remained spoiled, petulant and deceiving. They still referred to the innkeeper at “the help” and urged Maddie not to become too friendly. Gradually Maddie grows away from her two companions and closer to the Scottish people around her.
No spoilers. It’s a story with tragedy, passionate love, war, danger, and intrigue. But it held me spellbound. My only complaint is that while the war was always omnipresent, in the conclusion suddenly too much focus is on the details of the end of the war and the discovery of concentration camps--really removed from the world of the novel--and there is too much afterstory—but that would be another spoiler.
Nessie? Maybe she’s real, maybe not. It’s enigmatic. But strange things happen at the water’s edge of Lochness. I’d give this one four stars and recommend it highly.

New friends

It's always a good day when you make new friends, and I had that joy today. The story goes back a bit--I signed up for an online course on the history of the Scottish clans. Very excited about it, but the material was so detailed and dense I didn't have time to do more than read each lecture once. As for the exercises where we post bits from out novels in progress set in Scotland--I was really out of it. I don't have one, except floating in the back of my mind. So I wrote the instructor to say I was enjoying the lessons and explain why I wasn't more responsive. An exchange of emails followed, and I found out she lives in far north Fort Worth. So I suggested if she ever came to town we meet for lunch. Turns out she had a doctor appointment very near me for today, so I invited her and her husband for lunch, said I make killer tuna salad. She wrote back saying he wondered if I could make killer chicken salad--so I did. Chicken salad with a touch of curry topped with grated cheese and crushed potato chips that you run under the broiler just long enough to brown (recipe elsewhere--don't do this unless it's a refrigerator-to-oven dish). Sides were asparagus, fruit salad, and rolls. I liked it and they seemed enthusiastic.
We talked about Scotland, of course, though Cindy Vallar is also an expert on pirates and is making herself one on dragons. Her research is incredibly detailed and thorough. They brought scrapbooks of photos and souvenirs of their three trips to Scotland but I was able to hold my own in most of the conversation from my one trip. I could not think of one castle ruins that so intrigued me--the Scots blew it up rather than let their enemies captures it. Finally found tonight it was Urquhart on the banks of Loch Ness. Anyway, it was all fun, I enjoyed the talk and found them delightful people.
Topped off my day with dinner with two good friends at a restaurant new to me--Bird, downtown. They were both a bit alarmed that I ordered bone marrow--one horrified, one clinically inquisitive. I enjoyed it, along with some deviled eggs. A nice day and night.
Other big news looming in my family but it's all still in flux and will have to wait.