Feeling literary and social

Occasionally I get a real longing to be in the world of books and among book people. I scratched that itch this week by attending the banquet of the Texas Literary Hall of Fame. My history with that movement, group, whatever, is long but spotty. I was on the first committee to choose the inductees—in 2004 the committee honored J. Frank Dobie, Elmer Kelton, John Graves, Katherine Anne Porter, Shelby Hearon, Horton Foote, Larry McMurtry, and Walter Prescott Webb. An impressive class of inductees, some of whom were honored posthumously. Since then, the Hall has honored a new class every other year, though the ceremony got off schedule in 2018, postponed until 2019, and then, because of pandemic, not held again until this year. I blush—but not much—to mention that I was in the 2010 class with my good friend Jim Lee.

I chose to attend the dinner and invited Jean to go with me, partly because I thought she might find the people interesting and partly because I needed a shepherd. I went with some trepidation—I have been retired for eleven years and for the last two virtually a recluse. Would I know anybody? Would anybody know me? I was pleasantly surprised—I saw many people I knew and received lots of virtual hugs, had lots of good conversations. Jean did a masterful job of shepherding me through the crowd in my transport chair, so I could linger and visit with several. I was indeed back in the world of books.

The Hall, founded at the Fort Worth Public Library, had moved in recent years to TCU. Apparently leaving the library was not happy, but it has found a good new home at TCU under the direction of Mary Couts Burnett Library and its dean Tracy Hull. Tracy worked hard to make this dinner special so that Bunny Gardner, who started the whole thing way back when, would be glad of the move. And from what Bunny said to me, she was.

There were seven inductees—one of whom I knew from having worked with him on several books, though we did not that evening get a chance to talk, a couple of whom I knew by slight acquaintance, and one I knew by name. Jean said their acceptance speeches gave her new insight into writers, their passions, and their frustrations. If you’re interested in books, particularly Texas books, I would urge you to watch for the 2024 dinner.

My interest in the Hall of Fame is renewed so that I’m thinking of people to nominate and have three in mind. A friend on the selection committee tells me that those who nominate must submit a summary of the reasons an author is worthy, so there’s another project for me.

Tonight, still being social, I went to dinner with Carol, Kathie, and Subie for a belated celebration of Kathie’s September birthday and an early celebration of Subie’s December date. We went to Pacific Table, one of my favorites, but it is being remodeled, and the indoor space available was small and all hard slick surfaces—so noisy. I still say they have the best Caesar salad in town, and the fried oysters I had with it were wonderful. It was good to be together with these dear friends—obviously if we were late for a September birthday, we hadn’t seen much of each other for a while. But it was so noisy I missed much of the conversation. I did come home with a belated birthday present for my July birthday—remember those muffin tins your mom had that made cornbread in the shape of ears of corn? I know have one that makes it in the shape of saguaro cactus. Can’t wait to try it.

Came home to a houseful. Jordan and Christian were entertaining their nearest and dearest for supper. Most of the guests are people I’ve known since their high school days, so it was a delight to visit with them and catch up. Sophie of course won’t miss out on a minute of sociability, and many of the guests were her friends and fans. She went from person to person getting love. But now, she and I, the old folks, are settled in the cottage.

This social life is too exhausting for me. No, not really. I enjoyed it

Me and Christian 
at theier dinner party

The joy of a rainy day in September

Waking up to a soggy, dark world on an early September morning is sheer joy after the heat of summer, even though this summer wasn’t as bad as some. It had rained hard last night, again probably during the night, and it did it again this morning. And today the high was only 82. I already have visions of fall—and a big pot of freezer soup. My freezer has way too many small icebox dishes of leftovers, just waiting to be made into soup. I asked Christian if he would eat freezer soup, and he said he’d have to know what’s in it. I laughed aloud and told him I wouldn’t know. I just dump all those tads and bits together, add a can of diced tomatoes and maybe some broth, and call it soup.

The bad thing about all that welcome rain is that is cancelled whatever slim social life I have during quarantine. Last night, we abandoned our weekly Tuesday happy hour with neighbors because the patio was soggy-wet. Much harder today was to call a longtime and very dear friend to cancel lunch—she was going to bring it so we could eat on the patio. I explained hesitantly that we were not yet inviting people into my cottage. She had been travelling, because of a death in the family, and mingling with people, and although she’d been masked, I didn’t want to break the practice we’d worked so hard to follow. It’s worked to far, and we’re sticking to it. That’s what’s golden about old friendships—people who love you understand. And she did.

The rain made it the kind of day to curl up with a good book, and I started the day with every intention of being lazy. But my conscience, well-tuned to the work ethic, dinged at me. I was leisurely about checking email and catching up on the news of the day—so much of it discouraging but a few bright spots. But then I turned to a partially finished lecture for the chef course—and, miracle of miracles, I finished it. I’m not excited about it, it’s probably the last important of the twelve lectures, but I’m happy enough with it to leave it alone and move on.

So then I did what struck me as a perfect rainy-day activity. In my past life, when I had a fair-sized house, cooked anything I wanted, and collected recipes like a madwoman, I had an entire drawer in an antique secretary filled with folders of recipes—all labeled as to what meal they were for and whether or not I had tried them. A few of those folders survive in a file cabinet in my closet that is hard to get to. In this life, I have a bulging—and I mean ridiculously bulging--file folder among several others in a wire rack next to my desk. It was clearly out of hand, so I sorted through it and discarded maybe half the recipes—things that given the restrictions of my cooking situation and my family’s rather limited tastes, I would probably never cook. I think I collected them before pandemic when I could still entertain occasionally. I did keep a few that nobody else in the family will eat but I couldn’t bear to give up. Like gravlax—I’m determined to make my own sometime.

My mom always told me the Lord works in mysterious ways. No sooner had I sorted the recipes than Jordan announced we had to do long-range meal planning. Oh my, was I Johnny-on-the-sport. So now we have a week’s worth of menus, things like cheesy grits with black beans, avocado, and radish or Grandma’s chicken or Frito pie. We’ll eat high on the hog. Tonight? Slow cooker pork chops and corn pudding. Yum! I’m hungry.

Tonight, the sun has come out, and the world is bright again, though apparently the rain is not over.

The story of my life….and a cooking lesson

The story of my life this week is one of cancelled engagements…yesterday friends and I were to celebrate our birthdays at an annual lunch. Cancelled. Today, I was serving pasta carbonara to an old friend for lunch. Cancelled. Tonight, I was going to dinner with a friend. Cancelled. Not to sound too pitiful, I will admit that I have had company—a good friend brought barbecue last night, and another friend came to share the pasta so I went ahead and made it. But I haven’t gotten out of the cottage—well, since Tuesday night but it seems longer. And that was my only outing this week. I stand in danger of cabin fever, because I am dependent on friends who will come get me—and who can negotiate backing out of my 1920s skinny driveway. Can’t wait to drive again.

I can’t really have a pity party, because there are bright spots on the horizon. Grocery shopping with Jordan tomorrow, which is always fun, and maybe I’ll get to drive a cart again. Colin says I should not consider that practice for driving a 3,000-lb. car. Tomorrow night, Jamie, my youngest son, and his youngest daughter are coming to take me to dinner. A rare treat. And Saturday I will have lunch with another friend who shares July birthdays.

But still I’m afraid to pick up the phone, for fear it’s someone cancelling yet another outing.

It was really just as good my lunch date for today cancelled—he missed pasta carbonara which bombed. Jean came for lunch and wasn’t at all critical, having never had carbonara before. The recipe was a spring one and deceptively simple—diced bacon, green peas, and cut asparagus spears, with a bit of the bacon grease. Cook the pasta, drain it, and immediately stir in eggs, beaten with a little milk. Stir frantically so they don’t scramble. I’ve done that before with aveglomono recipes, and it creates a lovely silken sauce for the pasta.

Jean read the recipe and volunteered to go to the front porch for five or six basil leaves, which I cut into chiffonade strips and added—glad she reminded me of that.

Today my eggs scrambled, despite my frantic stirring. I figure cooking mistakes are learning lessons, so I’m analyzing this. I had eyeballed adjusting the recipe from six to two servings, and perhaps I put too much milk in the eggs. Also, I put the pan on a warm burner while I stirred, and I suspect that cooked the eggs—I should have kept stirring. There came a point when I saw the eggs were scrambled and there wasn’t much I could do about it, so I tossed in the vegetables and bacon, sprinkled them generously with cheese, and served.

Jean loved it, but she’d never had carbonara. I loved the veggies and the flavor, but thought the pasta was too dry. But then, I knew what it should be.

One thing about cooking in the cottage: when a recipe says to keep one pan warm on a burner, and cook pasta on another burner, I can’t do that. I only have one burner, so I have to juggle. I will definitely try that recipe again though. Seems I am accumulating a separate file of recipes to try again, having not quite hit the mark the first time around.

Tonight, leftovers. Tomorrow? Maybe tuna fish for lunch. I had given Jean a can of my special tuna, ordered straight from a cannery in Oregon, and they had it for dinner last night. Now she knows why I rave about it.

On Facebook tonight, someone quoted, “Last night I dreamt I went back to Manderley,” and it came home to me that I’ve never read Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. So that’s my reading now. ‘Night.

The writing life

A previous title given new life

One of my projects these days

 

Got my income tax "stuff" back from my accountant today. I don't wish to discuss how much I have to pay--it's too much to me, though I'm glad to pay my fair share. But what sent me over the moon was that I made a profit on my writing this year. Don't laugh--lots of writers file a Form C or whatever showing a deficit for years and years. Mine was probably less than a tenth of my total income if that much--not enough to live on, but proof to me that I'm headed in the right direction, and I'm doing a happy dance tonight. It's strange though to think I'm starting a burgeoning career in my seventies, and every once in a while I have a fleeting thought about how long I can keep this up. "At my back I always hear times winged chariot hurrying near." Well, not quite--for my age, I'm think I'm healthy and lively, though I know there are things I used to do that I can't do now.
At any rate, earning that non-living wage keeps me busy with deadlines (some self-imposed) all the time. I laugh looking back at the days, probably forty years ago, when I'd say to myself, "I'd write if I knew what to write about." No problem these days, as ideas and plots are popping in my brain all the time. What I need to do is learn to write them down before they escape.
I'm working on a novel I intend to self publish--ebook and print--and I sent it to a proofreader who said she loved it and hoped I'd turn it into a series. Do you think she says that to everyone? At any rate, I immediately knew who the victim was in the next book--but I have at least one, maybe two books to write before that one.
But I am also determined not to let this born-again career swallow me. Yes, I work at home most nights; yes, I try to keep my mornings clear so I can work. But I want to continue to schedule lunch and dinner dates, to get out in the world. A dear friend has just moved back to Fort Worth, and she has great plans for us to walk daily and to go to art exhibits. I'm going to do those things. Tonight I had a delightful supper with another old friend--and I look forward to many more dinners with friends.
I know of authors who first thing every morning check their sales. First of all, because most of my books are with publishers, I don't have instant access to that information. But even if I did, I don't think I'd look. Nor do I want to be bothered with every new promotional activity that comes down the pike. I do what I can, what makes sense for me to me, and then I let it go.
And one more thing: I want to read more than I have been. While waiting for my car at the car wash, I started a new cozy mystery today--Tracy Weber's Murder Strikes a Pose (A Downward Dog Mystery) and I want to finish it. And I'm having company Sunday night--I want to cook.
In other words, I love this new post-retirement career, but I also want to live a full life and not become a writing recluse. Hmmm....they're some friends I haven't had lunch with in a while. Think I'll send them an email.